


Once a Cop

by eideann



Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Ectoplasm, Family Angst, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Gibbs' Rules, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Illness, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eideann/pseuds/eideann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tony arrives early and alone to a crime scene, he’s confronted by a pair of fake FBI agents and a ghostly woman who instantly targets him. The ‘agents,’ Sam and Dean Winchester, get him out of there, and it seems like the trouble is over. When the ghost follows Tony to DC, Gibbs must join forces with the brothers to protect Tony and vanquish the threat.</p><p>Supernatural Season 2, NCIS Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tony walked into the local satellite office of the Burlington County Sheriff, more than a little irritated.  Gibbs had called him on his drive back down from a visit to New York, reminded him that his leave ‘officially’ ended on Friday and it was Sunday, and had sent him to do the preliminary work on a Marine that had been found dead in the woods in Burlington County, Pennsylvania.

The door thunked shut behind him, and he paused to let his eyes adjust.  A pretty girl in uniform sat behind a counter.  She looked up at him and smiled.  “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Deputy Logan,” he said.  He pulled out his badge.  “Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS.”

She tilted her head.  “A little late, aren’t you?”  Tony blinked.  He’d gotten the call no more than twenty minutes ago.  “I’m Sergeant Miller.  Your friends have already been to see the body and gone to the crime scene with Deputy Logan.”

“My friends?”

“The other FBI agents.”  She glanced down at the pages in front of her.  “Fornell and Sacks.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed.  What the hell were Fornell and Sacks doing horning in on a case that was in clear NCIS jurisdiction?  “I’m not FBI,” he said.  “I’m NCIS.  FBI doesn’t have jurisdiction on a dead marine.”

“He died in a national forest,” she replied.

Tony’s teeth ground together.  “I see,” he said as affably as he could.  He shrugged.  “Well, in about two hours, the NCIS medical examiner will arrive, Dr. Donald Mallard.”

“Donald Mallard?  Who would name their child something like that?”

“An upper class British lady in the 40s who probably didn’t watch much in the way of Disney cartoons.”

Miller’s eyebrows went up.  “An old doctor?” she asked, an odd tone in her voice.  “Well, I’ll look forward to seeing him.”

“So, can you give me directions to the crime scene?” Tony asked.

 She wrote down directions rapidly.  “Here,” she said.  “So, is that Agent Fornell married?  He’s sure a cute one.”

“Divorced,” Tony said, a little astonished.  “With a little girl.”

She didn’t seem put off in the slightest by this, but evidently she liked old guys.  Shaking his head, Tony went back out to his car and drove up into the hills to find the crime scene.

When he arrived, he parked next to a black ’67 Impala.  Must belong to Sacks or Logan because there was no way it was Fornell’s.  Tony would know if Fornell had a car that cool.  He walked up the path, following the directions Sergeant Miller had given him, and reached a clearing with tumbled boulders.  A long, skinny figure was on his knees, the top half of his body hidden behind a large rock.  Sacks, no doubt, because Fornell was standing with his back to Tony, his hair astonishingly dark.

“Toby, I see you’ve taken advantage of Just For Men hair dye,” Tony called.  “And Slacks, you’ve done better in the clothing department, I gotta tell you.  I’d say you were ruining those pants, but there’s not much to ruin.”

The standing man turned, revealing himself to be much younger than Tobias Fornell, and his partner sat back on his knees.  Definitely not Agent Sacks.  Decidedly non-regulation haircut for one thing, and skin so pale that he could pass for a vampire.  Tony stared back and forth between them and put his hand on his gun.  Before he had a chance to draw it, though, both men had pieces out and pointing at him.

“Get rid of the gun,” the short guy said.  “Just toss it gently over there.”

“Where’s Deputy Logan?” Tony demanded.

“He’s . . . around,” the tall one said, sounding uneasy.

“Around,” Tony said.  “Great.”

The short one shook his head and took a step closer, cocking his pistol.  “Look, dude, drop the gun now.”

Tony pulled his weapon out and tossed it aside, taking careful note of where it had fallen so he could dive for it if need be.

“I told you,” hissed the tall . . . boy.  Tony realized abruptly that the kid was younger than McGee.  “A real FBI agent was bound to show up sooner or later.”

“It doesn’t matter, _Sacks_ ,” snapped the short one.  “We’ve got a job to do.”

“Yeah, but . . . FBI.  We don’t need this.”

“As it happens, I’m not FBI,” Tony said.  “I’m NCIS.”  He had a second piece on his ankle if he could just get these two distracted.

“Oh,” the fake Fornell said, then his brows knit.  “Huh?”

The second one glanced sideways.  “Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Dean,” he said.

“Good job, _Sammy_ ,” replied Dean.  “Now he’s got our names.”

“Actually, I just had the one until you said his,” Tony pointed out affably.  Dean glared at him.

“Whatever, this isn’t going like we planned,” Sammy said.

Tony cleared his throat.  “Could you have this squabble later?” he asked.  Ordinarily he’d encourage the arguing, but it didn’t seem to be distracting them from their aim in the slightest.

“You keep out of this,” Dean replied.

“I just don’t really like having the guys holding guns on me bickering like children.”

“Then you chose the wrong guys to hold guns on you,” Dean retorted, and Tony blinked.  “So, you know these guys, huh?  Fornell and Sacks?”

Tony nodded.  “Oh yeah,” he said.  “Fornell . . . is old enough to be my dad.”  He glanced down and saw that Dean was standing in a slight depression in the ground.  “He’s also shorter than you, gray-haired, and not nearly as good looking.”  Dean shrugged like that had to be entirely obvious.  Tony glanced over at the other guy, Sammy.  “Sacks has you beat in the looks department, hands down, and he’s black.”  Dean smirked and Sammy rolled his eyes.  Tony shook his head and spread his hands wide.  “And what’s with the crappy suits, guys?  Even the FBI dresses better than that.”

“Are you seriously giving the guys with guns a fashion critique?” Dean asked.

Tony shrugged.  “So, you planning to add murder of a federal agent to whatever other charges you’re racking up?”  It might not be wise to bring that up given the circumstances, but Tony had never been one to err on the side of wisdom.

The kid took several impulsive steps forward, his weapon falling to his side.  “No, man, we’re not going to kill you!” he said earnestly.

“Sammy!” Dean exclaimed, turning.  “You can’t _tell_ people that!”

Tony squatted instantly and pulled out his back up piece.  He came up with the 9mm pointed at Dean’s head.  At that same moment, Dean turned back and pointed his .45 at Tony’s head.  All three of them froze and were silent for a long moment.  Tony felt sweat beading up at his hairline, but he wasn’t shifting.

“Okay,” Sammy said.  “This is a fun game.  Could we not do this, Dean?”

“What do you want me to do, Sammy?” Dean demanded, and truth be told, he sounded almost as unhappy about the situation as Sammy did.  That didn’t seem to have any effect on where his gun was pointing, however.  Tony was having trouble getting a bead on this mess.

“Could we all put the guns away before someone does something truly, appallingly stupid?” Sam exclaimed.

“Too late, boys,” Tony said, and both the younger men glared at him.  “Now, where is Deputy Logan?”  As he spoke, Tony noticed something odd happening behind Dean.  A strange mist was coalescing into a concentrated cloud, despite the hot July weather.  He supposed it could be an outlet for some kind of underground hot spring, or maybe a sewer vent.

“Put your gun down and maybe we can discuss it,” Dean ordered.

Given what he suspected had happened to Deputy Logan at the hands of these enterprising young felons, Tony wasn’t giving up any advantage, no matter how slight.  “Just answer my question,” he said, but his voice faltered as the cloud of mist he could still see over Dean’s shoulder morphed from a shapeless cloud into a female figure.  Dean started saying something, but Tony didn’t take in any words.  The woman . . . or girl . . . was plainly visible, though she was still shrouded in mist.  Tall and slender, she had the figure of a girl entering womanhood, and her hair was some kind of dark.  Tony couldn’t tell what color, because she seemed to be appearing in black and white against the bright green backdrop of the trees and underbrush.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  Her eyes, as they came into existence, were focused on him, filled with rage and something akin to hate.

“Dean?” said Sammy beside him, his voice filled with dismay.  Tony couldn’t see him in his peripheral vision, and, though he knew that should disturb him, the angry girl appearing impossibly before him was rapidly seizing his full attention.

“What, Sammy?” Dean demanded irritably.

“Where’s the shotgun?”

Tony’s heart began to thump in his chest.  He wondered what the hell Sammy wanted a shotgun for.  Breathing became an effort with the sheer terror filling him.  She could not be there.  He wanted to yell, to demand what he was seeing, even to run, but he couldn’t.  He was frozen in place. 

“In the car . . .”  Dean turned, and his eyes widened.  “Crap!”

All of a sudden, the girl shot straight across the clearing towards him, right through Dean, who let out a startled expletive.  She moved with alarming speed.  Tony felt himself enveloped in freezing, damp air that his labored breathing dragged deep into his lungs.  Her anger was hitting him like body blows, making him feel battered and bruised.  He shivered in the cold and still could not move.

Hands slid under his arms from either side, lifting him almost off his feet and carrying him backwards out of the cloud of frigid vapor.  Hot air hit him again, intensifying his shivers briefly.  The girl gave chase, shrieking her fury to the sky.  The shriek smashed through Tony’s mind and his brain ceased to function.

When he came to himself again, he was wrapped in a blanket in the backseat of a car.  Sammy and Dean were in front of him, both sitting sideways on the seat, and they were arguing.  “– FBI guys in the 70s weren’t affected, so she shouldn’t have attacked him.”  Dean finished this statement with a thumb over his shoulder pointing in Tony’s direction.

“I don’t know, Dean, law enforcement –”

“We know for a fact that there were FBI agents all over that hill in ‘78, Sam, and not one of them was attacked.  Now, I’m not sure how the military police figures into this, it’s not the same thing as the local yokels, but –”

“Cheavers was a cop in Lincoln before he joined up, right after 9/11,” Sam said, glancing down at something in his lap.  “Logan is a member of the same department whose cops attacked her in the first place.  NCIS . . . I’m not sure, he’s technically a part of the military law enforcement establishment, so I don’t know if that –”

“He’s not a cop, Sam.  He’s a federal agent, and she only goes after cops.”

“I used to be a cop,” Tony said, and they both turned to stare at him with wide eyes. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean muttered.

Tony felt weak and beaten, and his chest felt like it was weighted with lead.  “I was a beat cop in Peoria, vice in Philadelphia and homicide in Baltimore.”

“Glad to see you’re still with us,” Dean said.  “So, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Tony.”  His breathing wasn’t returning to normal, though his heart no longer felt like it was trying to escape the confines of his ribcage.  “What the hell was that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Dean replied dismissively.

Tony glowered at him.  “Rule 47.  Never ask a question you don’t want to know the answer to.  I asked.  I want the answer.”  His voice was growing hoarse, and he recognized the symptoms of incipient chest infection.  They were coming on awfully quickly, though.  He hadn’t felt sick at all till that thing hit him.

“Rule 47?” Dean repeated.  “What rules are those?”

“ _The_ rules,” Tony replied, not wanting to go into detail.  “What was that thing?”

“She’s a vengeful spirit,” Sammy said, and Tony turned to stare at him in shock.

“A vengeful . . .”  Tony shook his head.  More likely she was an amazing special effect.  His body rejected that suggestion, but his brain rejected the idea that she was anything supernatural.  “Even assuming that was true, why would she be mad at me?” he asked.

Dean shrugged.  “You’re a cop.”  Tony turned raised eyebrows on him.  “It’s not fair, but what is?  A couple cops attacked her in 1959, they raped her and killed her and got away with it.  Now she’s on a cop-killing frenzy.  Just wrong place, wrong time for you, buddy boy.”

“And that’s what happened to Deputy Logan?”  Tony felt surreptitiously for his belt buckle.  The knife was still in place.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I mean, we assume so.  We were in the woods when it happened.”

Tony leaned back in the car seat, gauging his chances of getting out without one of the nut jobs grabbing him.  The chances seemed pretty low at the moment, so he figured he’d better bide his time.  Besides, he still wasn’t altogether sure what was going on.  Nothing seemed to make much sense.  “Nice car, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, glancing around at the interior possessively.

“So, what do you plan to do with me?” Tony asked.

Dean shrugged.  “We haven’t figured out where she was buried yet.  Till we do that, I’m afraid you’re staying with us.”

“Dean, we can’t just keep him,” Sammy said in an undertone.

“If we let him go, he’s going to bring other feds down on top of us.”

“Other feds are already on their way,” Tony said.  He dug in his pocket for his phone.  The screen was cracked, and the buttons didn’t even light up.  He stared at it in dismay.  “I am so dead,” he muttered.  Gibbs would kill him.

“What do you mean?” Sammy asked.

“Rule 3, never be unreachable,” Tony said.

“It’s not exactly your fault,” Dean pointed out.

“It won’t matter,” Tony replied, and the guys exchanged a startled look that Tony ignored.  “What happened to it, anyway?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.  There were crazy cracks all over the back casing.

“Cold damage,” Sammy said, taking it and looking closely at it.  “I’m surprised you don’t have frostbite or something.”

Tony took a breath to respond to that bizarre statement, but it caught on some kind of obstruction in his lungs and he started coughing.  It felt like pneumonia-level coughing, but it had come on too quickly.  It didn’t make any sense for him to be this screwed up this fast.  One of the guys started pounding him on his back, and he finally managed to stop coughing.  Dean had a hand on his shoulder when he looked up, and he was staring at Tony with wide eyes.  “I think it’s ‘or something,’ Sam,” he said.  “Were you sick before?”  Tony shook his head.  Talking might lead to more coughing.

“She doesn’t make people sick, Dean, she kills them.”

“Pneumonia kills, Sam, or it can.  We got him out of there before she could quick freeze him, but maybe she left something behind.”

Tony shook his head.  “You guys are nuts,” he said, but this pneumonia was coming on even faster than it had when he’d gone into the harbor twice in quick succession and then given artificial respiration to two people till he was ready to collapse himself.  Even if he’d breathed in fresh plague virus, he shouldn’t be sick this fast.

“I don’t think the ghost gave him pneumonia,” Sam said.

Tony started coughing again, and this time there was blood on his hand when he stopped.

“Son of a bitch, Sammy, he’s really sick,” Dean said, lifting Tony’s head.  “Dude, you’ve got a fever.  Come on, he didn’t look like this when he showed up.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sammy said reluctantly.

“We’ve got to get him to the hospital or he’s gonna die, and someone is going to have to stay with him.”

Tony was beginning to feel sort of disconnected.  “It’s probably because of the plague,” he muttered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the seat.

“The plague?”  Both voices together cut into a headache that Tony had barely noticed as of yet.  He opened his eyes and glared at them.  “What plague?” Sammy asked.

Tony blinked at him.  “New . . .nem . . . the one that’s not spelled how it sounds.”

“Pneumonic?” Sammy asked.  Tony gave him a thumbs up.

“What’s that?” Dean demanded.

“It’s the third stage of the Black Death,” Sammy said.

“You mean like Middle Ages, rats and things?”

“That’s the one,” Tony said.  “Speaking of rats, what’s with the rat pack names?” he asked through a raw throat.

Sammy’s brows went up.  “Rat pack . . . what?”

Dean smacked him.  “I never thought about that,” he said.  He shrugged.  “Dean and Sammy, that’s kind of cool.  There’s no Peter or Frank, though, and the only Jo we know would probably kill us if we tried to call her Joey.”

Tony snorted, but the amused sound brought on a coughing fit that had Dean climbing into the back seat to pound on his back.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Sammy demanded.  “Leave the poor man alone.”

Tony looked up once the fit had passed.  “He’s breaking up the crap, but there . . . it shouldn’t be so . . . so far advanced.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Dean said.  “Sam, get in the driver’s seat.  We need to get him to the hospital.”

Tony shook his head.  “Where’s my car?”

“Back at the bottom of the hill,” Dean said.

“Is it okay?  I mean, is she likely to mess with it?”

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t think so,” Dean said, but the way he said it meant he was lying.

“Oh, man, we gotta go back, then!” Tony exclaimed.

“Back?  Are you nuts?”

“It’s a ’64 Mustang,” Tony said, and he could tell that got through to Dean.  “My last car exploded, the car before that was stolen and wrecked in a high speed chase.  I can’t lose another one.  My insurance company will never forgive me.”

“We are not going back for your car,” Sammy said, putting the Impala into gear.  “Dean!” he said over a protest.  “He probably just wants us to run into those ‘other federal agents’ he mentioned earlier.”

Tony hadn’t even thought of that.  That wasn’t a good sign.

“Hey, that . . .”  Dean touched Tony’s shoulder.  “Are any of your friends like you, former cops?”

Tony shook his head.  “Gibbs was an MP, but . . . does one of you have a phone?”

“Yeah, but you can’t use it,” Dean said.  “I do not want my number showing up on some fed’s phone.”

Tony grimaced and struggled not to give way to the tickle in his throat.  Lung-ripping coughing was not his favorite pastime.  He slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes.  “Gibbs is going to kill me.”

“Hey, man, you’re sick.  You can’t work if you’re hacking up a lung.”

“Gibbs’ll be pissed about that, too,” Tony muttered.

“Your boss sounds like a prize jerk,” Sammy said.  Tony opened his eyes and glowered at the back of his head.

“I think you’d better keep your opinion to yourself, Sammy,” Dean said.

“What do you mean, Dean?  I mean, if he’s going to be pissed at him for getting sick, don’t you think that –”

Tony leaned forward and started to tell Sammy-boy that he didn’t know what he was talking about.  Two words in, though, his throat caught, and he started another round of coughing.

“Sam, shut up,” Dean said.

After that, they traveled in silence, and Tony drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a crappy day. Please say nice things if you feel them. Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who helped to cheer my crappy day! It did indeed brighten my mood.

“Try him again, McGee,” Gibbs ordered irritably.  Why wasn’t DiNozzo answering now?  Gibbs wouldn’t have been surprised if his senior field agent had failed to answer the phone when he’d called in the first place.  After all, the argument that he was no longer on leave was something of a reach, but DiNozzo had answered promptly, and he’d barely complained when Gibbs had ordered him to secure a crime scene while he was on his way back from vacation.

Now he wasn’t answering his phone, and it had been less than two hours.

“Boss, I had Abby check his phone.  It’s not on.”

“You mean it wasn’t on when she checked,” Gibbs said.

“Actually, she’s monitoring it now,” McGee replied.  “Its GPS chip is inactive, the phone isn’t receiving calls, and she’s got something set up to alert her when it starts up again.”

Gibbs didn’t really understand how all of that worked, but that was one of the reasons he’d brought McGee onto the team in the first place.  “Let me know the instant that changes, McGee,” he snapped.

“Yes, Boss,” McGee said.

Gibbs nodded, as satisfied as he could be under the circumstances.  According to the desk sergeant, Deputy Logan had gone to the crime scene with two men claiming to be Fornell and Sacks.  Since Gibbs knew that Fornell had taken his daughter to Florida for the weekend, he’d immediately called DiNozzo.  While he did that, Ziva obtained Logan’s phone number and called him as well.  Neither man answered, so Gibbs had gathered his team and set out for the crime scene.

“There!” Ziva said as they came around a leafy left-hand curve.  “Is that Tony’s car?”  The incredulity in her voice mirrored Gibbs’ feelings.  The ’64 Mustang looked like it had been through either an ice storm or a sandstorm, neither of which was likely to be encountered on the east coast in July.  Gibbs brought the car to a jolting stop and took off running up the path, his gun in hand.  As he approached the clearing, he slowed.  Ziva was close behind him, McGee a little farther back.  With gestures, he directed them to wait and provide cover fire as needed.  He ghosted into the clearing and found it scattered with man-sized boulders and smaller rocks.  It appeared to be empty of people, but with all the boulders, it was impossible to be certain, and even if they checked them all, that wouldn’t clear the woods.

Gibbs beckoned Ziva forward, and then he moved further into the space.  A man in a tan uniform lay face down on the other side of the boulder from the path.  His legs were in a roughly circular patch of grass that was brown and withered.  All the rest of his body lay on green grass.  “Check the area.  Find DiNozzo.”

Ziva and McGee ventured cautiously into the woods.  Sirens began to be audible, so evidently the desk sergeant had summoned what back up they had.  Gibbs called Ducky and redirected him.  He distinctly remembered Deputy Logan telling him that their local coroner was a mortician.  This was close enough to their case to allow him to stretch jurisdiction at least as far as an autopsy.

He noticed another discolored patch of grass, also roughly circular.  From the chalk outline, it was where Cheavers’ body had been found.  Then he noticed a faint glint of dark metal.  Walking gingerly over, he saw a Sig lying in the grass.  He pulled out a pair of gloves and picked it up.  Unexpectedly, given the heat of the day, the gun was so cold it made his fingers hurt to hold it.  Putting on his reading glasses, he squinted at the serial number.  DiNozzo’s.  He put it back where he’d found it so it could be photographed and stifled the curses he wanted to utter.

* * *

“We’ll be arrested as soon as we show our faces, Dean.”

Tony squeezed his eyes shut and tried to wake up completely, but nothing changed.  He was still wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket in the backseat of a ’67 Impala with two comparative strangers who were sort of holding him prisoner.  He’d hoped it had all been a rotten dream, and that he would wake up, ready to drive back to DC from New York.

“We can’t leave a man practically dying of pneumonia in the street, Sammy.”

That was an interesting point.  The last time Tony had been awake, he’d felt like crap.  Now his chest ached a little, but he could breathe freely and he no longer felt feverish.  “Son of a bitch,” he growled, sitting up.

Dean shoved him sideways.  “You should probably lie down unless you want the cops to see you.  We’re trying to figure out how to get you into the hospital.”

Meanwhile Tony was trying to figure out how he was going to explain his absence from the crime scene to Gibbs.  “I don’t need the hospital,” he said in a clear voice.  “Whatever it was is gone.”

Both guys looked at him with wide eyes.  “It’s what?”

“I’m fine, now,” Tony said.  “And why wouldn’t I want to be seen by the cops?”

Dean looked at Sammy.  “Maybe we got out of her range.”

“Whatever,” Sammy said.  “I’m driving out of town, and we can talk about it there.”  Tony wasn’t sure whether he should make a break for it or just go along for the ride, and his indecision decided for him.  He watched the buildings go by, listening to hard rock play on the stereo.

Finally, Sammy pulled to the side of the road and turned around in the front seat.  Tony glanced at the two men.   “So, what now?” he asked.  “Do I expect a midnight visit from Mata Hari, or is it over?”

“Ghosts are tied to the locations that they haunt,” Dean said.

Tony let out an explosive sigh.  “I can’t believe I’m sitting here having a serious conversation about ghosts.”  He scrubbed his fingers in his hair in frustration.  “And how the hell am I going to explain to Gibbs that I can’t go back to the crime scene?”

“I don’t know, but you really can’t,” Sammy said earnestly.  “You come in her range again, and she’s going to freeze you solid.”

“I got an idea,” Dean replied.  Raising his eyebrows, Tony looked over at him – just in time to see him haul back for a punch.  Tony didn’t even get a chance to protest before the blow took him on the chin and knocked him out.

* * *

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, and Dean ignored him, digging in Tony’s pockets.  “What is with you?  One minute you’re acting like his nurse, the next you’re punching his lights out?”

“It’s a good explanation for why he’s not at the crime scene,” Dean said, shrugging.  Sam got out of the car and walked around to the other side.  Dean raised his voice.  “And he’s all better.  You heard him.  No one could fake that.”  He sat back with a wallet, an ID folder and a pair of handcuffs in his hands.  “So, how do we leave him?  If we were real bastards, we’d strip him and keep the clothes.”

“We are not robbing him.”

“We kidnapped a Federal Agent in the course of his duties.  We have to do something to make it look real.”

“Knocking him out isn’t enough?”

“Okay, we leave him on the side of the road, his hands cuffed in front of him, and I wait in the bushes over there to make sure nothing bad happens.”  Dean got out of the car and, opening the trunk, pulled out a salt-loaded shotgun.  He still had the .45 in the back of his pants for more mundane threats.  “You go back to the motel and find out where this chick was buried.  I’ll call you when I need you to pick me up.”

Sam raised a few more objections, but after a while he gave in to the inevitable.  They cuffed Tony, laid him on the shoulder in as comfortable a position as could be found, then Dean walked into the underbrush while Sam drove away.  Dean found a reasonable spot to sit down, where he could see Tony and not be seen himself.  He figured if it took too long, he’d call 911 and claim to be a passerby.  In the meantime, he started flipping through Tony’s wallet.  “Anthony L. DiNozzo, huh?  I could pass for Italian,” he muttered.

* * *

“Jethro?”

Gibbs walked over to Ducky from where he’d been supervising evidence collection – and fretting about DiNozzo.  “You got a TOD for me, Ducky?”

“No, Jethro, and I’m not going to be able to provide one,” Ducky said.  Gibbs’ brows lowered.  “I’m sorry, but I’d need a hammer to get my probe where it needs to go.”

“What?”

“The man is frozen solid.”

“How is that possible, Duck?  He was seen alive not more than three hours ago.”

“I’ll know more when I can get a look inside,” Ducky replied.  “Ready, Mr. Palmer?”  Gibbs looked up and saw that Palmer was staring off into the woods.  “Mr. Palmer?”  Palmer came back from his woolgathering with a start and bent to help lift Deputy Logan’s body onto the stretcher.  “Fortunately he went in a relatively prone position, or this might have been more difficult.”

Gibbs’ phone rang, and he looked at the LED.  He didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was local.  He flipped it open and answered in his usual clipped style.

“Boss?”  The voice was weak but recognizable.

“DiNozzo!”  Every member of his team, and no few members of the sheriff’s department, turned to look at him.  “Where the hell are you?”

“Handcuffed in the back of a minivan,” Tony said.  Gibbs heard a voice in the background offering a bottle of water.

“Where are you?”

“Not sure, but I think they’re taking me to the hospital.”  He let out a groan that had Gibbs worried.

“You hurt?”

“The son of a bitch knocked me out and took my wallet.”

“Beats being dead.  We’ll meet you at the hospital.”  He flipped the phone shut, then called Abby.

She launched straight into a question.  “Gibbs, did you find Tony yet?”

“Tony has found himself,” Gibbs replied.  “Take down this number.”  He read off the number DiNozzo had called from.  “Monitor that phone.  If it doesn’t go straight to the local hospital, you call me.”

“Yes, Gibbs.  Is that where Tony is?”

“Yup.”  He flipped the phone shut again.  “Ducky, you’re with me.  Ziva, McGee, follow on with Palmer once you’re done here.”

* * *

Dean waited for Sam to come back with the car, amused as hell by the people who had stopped to pick Tony up.  Two white hairs, driving a minivan.  At first they had been alarmed by the sight of a man handcuffed on the side of the road, but when Tony exerted himself, he could apparently be extra charming.  The woman had gone all motherly and sweet, the man gruff and concerned, and they believed him when he said he was a federal agent.  Dean shook his head.  The poor guy was going to catch hell over it later, unless he managed to conceal the truth from his buddies.

Sam pulled up finally, and Dean opened the driver’s door.  “Slide over, Sammy, I’m driving.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam slid deeper into the car, leaving the keys in the ignition.  “Dean, I –”

“You should have seen it, Sammy,” Dean said as they took their proper places in the Impala.  “Tony got picked up by two old people.  Hell, I’m surprised neither of them had a walker, they were so old.  He looked –”

“Dean, I found out what happened to Iris’s body,” Sam said.

“Okay, where is it?”

“In an urn, in the mausoleum.”

Dean blinked.  “She was cremated?” he asked.  Sam just looked at him.  “Okay, so we’ve got to figure out what’s keeping her here.  Good thing is, it’s become a federal case, so that limits the number of actual cops who will be going up that hill.”

“Except any of his buddies who want to see the place that he died,” Sam pointed out.

“That’s . . . a problem,” Dean agreed grimly.  “So, what are the possibilities?”

“According to the ME’s report, she bled to death, and her body was found on one of those rocks up there.  Did you see any bloodstains?”

“No, and I was looking,” Dean replied.  “And any blood that was in the ground would have been absorbed by the environment by now.”

“There has to be something.”

“Let’s go through the records again.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tony suffered through the inevitable hazing from McGee. After two guys getting the drop on him, then him ending up on the side of the road unconscious and bound with his own handcuffs, and finally being rescued by an elderly couple on their way to bingo, hazing was a foregone conclusion. McGee had never had such a prime opportunity, and he took full advantage. It lasted all the way back to DC, and for days afterwards. Tony consoled himself with the thought of how much worse it would have been if he'd told them what really happened.

The one thing McGee didn't tease him about was his car. The Mustang was trashed, and even McGee seemed to feel that was a tragedy. Kate would have given him hell about the car, but Ziva didn't seem to be in the mood for teasing, and once Gibbs was reassured that there was no lasting damage to his agent, he just acted like nothing had happened.

Tony still hadn't decided what to do about his car. It had been towed to DC at great expense, but he wasn't sure how much he wanted to drive a car that had been the subject of a ghost's fury.

He dropped his backpack behind the desk and took his seat. Ziva didn't say anything about his tardiness, but he knew McGee wouldn't be able to resist.

"What kept you this time, Tony?" McGee asked, sauntering towards Tony's desk. "Did a little old lady have to help you walk across the street?"

"Give it a rest, Elflord," Gibbs said, walking back into the bullpen. McGee returned to his computer screen, flushing slightly. "We have anything on how two men could be frozen solid in a clearing five miles from any source of power?"

"One of them in less than two hours?" Tony added, grateful for the intervention. He knew the answer, and it was playing havoc with his ability to investigate. How could he tell Gibbs that their culprit was a ghost and that she would undoubtedly resist arrest with all the abilities at her command? He didn't want to believe that he believed it, but he did. Frequent dreams of suffocating under a cold weight reinforced that belief, and his bed looked sort of like a mound of blankets with a headboard. He couldn't seem to stay warm. Even at work, he felt unexpected chills.

"I'm looking into cryonics," McGee said. "Nothing seems to be panning out, though."

"And these two guys who attacked DiNozzo? Anything on them?"

"I don't think they're the killers, Boss," Tony said. "I think they were thrill seekers."

"They were there when Logan bought it," Gibbs replied. Tony couldn't deny that. He looked away, trying to come up with a decent explanation.

"I believe I have identified them," Ziva said, and Tony's head came up. Images came up on the screen above Gibbs' desk and they all looked. "They are brothers, Dean and Samuel Winchester."

Tony blinked at the photos. Why did it not surprise him that Dean had "mugged" for the mug shot? Sammy just looked blank. Gibbs turned around. "Those the guys, DiNozzo?"

"Yeah," Tony said.

"They got history?"

Ziva nodded, looking troubled. "Quite a varied history, actually, going back to pre-teens for both of them."

"Murder?" She nodded. "Any technical skills?"

"The younger brother, Samuel, attended Stanford for four years, graduating in 2005. His girlfriend died in a fire, and he left town. His major was pre-law. Their crimes have largely been low-tech, grave desecration, murder with various weapons – including axes, water and firearms." That sounded alarming, but Tony couldn't help wondering what reasons might lie behind those actions. "Also credit card fraud and impersonating law enforcement at all levels."

Gibbs nodded, looking up at the two. "Huh." He stared a moment longer, then walked away again. He went into the elevator and disappeared, headed for the level of autopsy. Tony tried to focus on the family networks in Gunnery Sergeant Eugene Cheavers' life, looking for anyone with a motive to kill him. He really hoped he didn't find anyone. He hated the idea of finding a likely suspect who would then have his or her life ripped apart for nothing.

* * *

"Dean?"

Dean looked up from his rapt involvement with a bacon cheeseburger. "What?"

"We've got a problem."

"You mean besides the fact that Iris Gottlieb was cremated?" Dean asked. "Or the fact that she's apparently stopped attacking people?" That had been their most recent discovery. Deputy Logan's wife had wanted to see the place where he died, so another deputy had taken her up there. Under the circumstances, Sam and Dean had tailed them, so as to be on hand when the ghost attacked. Nothing had happened, but neither of them thought the haunting was over. Maybe on hiatus . . .

"Yeah, besides that," Sam said. He looked down at his computer screen and began to read aloud. "'Several days before his bizarre death, Sheriff Grimes described an encounter with a ghostly woman in the woods. He said she came at him shrieking, and when he backed up, he tripped and fell down the hill. When he got up, he just got in his car and left, but within the week, he had frozen to death inside his own home with the heat turned up full.'"

Dean shrugged. "What of it? We know . . ." Then Sam's point sank home. "She followed him. Maybe that's why she isn't attacking anyone else, she's already focused on a target."

"That guy is –"

"Tony," Dean interjected.

Sam's lips pressed thin. "Fine, Tony's in danger," Sam said. "We have to warn him somehow."

"Well, we're at a dead end here," Dean replied. "Let's head to DC." He dug in his bag and pulled out the man's wallet, flipping to the driver's license and showing his brother. "I just happen to know where he lives."

"Dean, I told you not to take anything," Sam said incredulously.

"Had to make it look real, Sammy," Dean said expansively.

Sam rolled his eyes, but then his brows knit. "Wait, you want to go to DC? With the FBI after us?"

"That's just Henrickson," Dean said airily. "We can avoid him."

* * *

Gibbs walked outside onto the loading dock where bodies were delivered. It was a fairly private location unless there was a delivery in progress as there was at the moment. He wondered if the office supplies people knew that they were using the same door that murdered navy and marine personnel entered the building through. Not that it mattered.

Once they were gone, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number he'd had to search for. It had taken longer for him to do it himself, but he didn't want McGee or Abby getting involved. He swallowed grimly and listened to the ringing phone.

"Hello?"

Gibbs closed his eyes. "Hi, Jack," he said.

There was a silence on the other end, then the familiar voice said, "Leroy? Is that you?"

"Yeah. I need to ask you a question, one I never thought I'd ask."

"Sure." Jack sounded dubious, but that might just be a result of how long it had been since Gibbs had spoken to him. "Shoot."

"Do you know anything about two hunters named Dean and Samuel Winchester?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"They seem to be tangled up in something I'm working on," Gibbs replied. "Do you know them?"

"Yeah, I saw them last week." Jackson paused. "Good kids, both of them."

"So, they are hunters?"

"Sure are. Family tradition. Their father started bringing them by in the mid 80s. I know Dean better than I know Sam, because Sam quit for a while, went to college or something."

"Right," Gibbs said. "Thanks." He started to hang up, but Jack spoke again.

"Son?"

"Yeah?"

"Good to hear from you."

Gibbs hung up the phone and went back inside, now wondering what the hell DiNozzo had encountered in that clearing. Was it a couple of hunters with an attitude problem about feds, or was it something more alarming? He didn't think asking DiNozzo would get him much of anywhere. He might be able to guess which it was by the kind of blank face DiNozzo put on, but the younger man wouldn't tell him a thing.

Still, hunters – and what they hunted – might explain men frozen to death in an outdoor setting with no machinery or power source. He scowled. This one might be headed for the cold case file. He hated cold cases.

He got upstairs to find McGee and Ziva hard at work, and DiNozzo's desk empty. "Where's DiNozzo?" he asked.

"Dental appointment," Ziva said.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Dental appointment?" There was a time when that excuse had come up rather too often, but he vaguely remembered DiNozzo mentioning an appointment a week or so ago.

"Yeah, Boss, you okayed the time off last week," McGee said, echoing the thought. Gibbs gave him a look, and McGee grimaced. "But of course, you remember that."

Gibbs sat down at his desk. His questioning of DiNozzo would have to wait. It would probably be better to do it after hours anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony stared in dismay at the sign taped to the door of the dentist's office. "Closed due to family emergency. Sorry for the inconvenience." It was hell anymore for him to ask for time off for dental appointments. After that whole undercover thing when he'd used that excuse roughly once a week, Gibbs looked askance at him every time he asked. Why hadn't they called him, he wondered, and then he remembered. He'd given them his cell phone number, and he'd had a new cell phone issued, with a new number. And apparently he hadn't actually managed to set the call forwarding correctly.

So, now he had a choice, he could go back to work and look for the mythical bad guy who'd killed Deputy Logan and Gunnery Sergeant Cheavers, or he could go home, have a couple beers and watch a movie. Even though he knew Gibbs would probably kill him if he ever found out, Tony opted for the latter. It was already almost four, anyway.

He opened his front door and walked inside, dropping his backpack onto the table in the front hall. What the hell was up with the air conditioning? It was always so cold in his apartment lately. He went over to the thermostat and found that it was off. He turned it on, but cranked up the heat instead of the air. It was July. He shouldn't be so damned cold all the time.

Going into his room, he took off his suit and pulled on a pair of sweats and a turtleneck. Wouldn't McGee rib him if he saw him going around like this in July? Instead of a cold beer, he opted for hot chocolate. After putting the cup down on the end table, he put a few movies into his DVD player and settled on the sofa with the remotes. When that didn't make him warm enough, he pulled down a throw. Maybe he was getting sick. Cheery thought.

He was just about halfway through _Casablanca_ when the lights started flickering. He looked up in irritation. Brownouts happened sometimes at this time of year, but they were annoying. Both the TV and the DVD player turned off, and they didn't turn back on again. Tony sighed and turned them both on. The DVD started loading the menu screen, so evidently the player had forgotten where he was in the movie. The lights flickered and the TV turned off again. Tony gave up. He got up and picked up his empty cup to carry it into the kitchen.

And that's when he saw her. Or it. Or whatever pronoun was used to describe ghosts. McGee would probably know. He stopped stock still, staring at her. She wasn't moving as fast as she had in the clearing, but she was moving towards Tony, her hate-filled eyes fixed on his.

He took a step backwards. That was another thing that was different from the clearing. He could move, but it took enormous effort. It was like the moment he saw her, his joints seized up. She kept coming, and he kept moving away, steadily. For the moment, they seemed to be keeping the same pace, but there was a wall behind him that would block his progress soon.

Dean had said that ghosts were tied down. Apparently, Dean was wrong. Tony's back hit the shelves that held his DVDs, and he found himself stuck, staring, watching her come. She was still ten feet away, and the agonizing slowness of her approach was driving him nuts

Suddenly, there came a knocking on his door. Tony looked towards it, startled. He wasn't expecting anybody. The lights flickered again, and she was abruptly closer by two feet.

Tony tried to call out, but his voice wouldn't work. Then it occurred to him that he might not want to bring someone else in here. He heard raised voices outside the door, and then whoever was out there started pounding. The lights flickered again, and he heard something pop and sizzle in the kitchen. The smell of ozone wafted through the rapidly chilling air. She was suddenly right in front of him, and he was in the edges of the mist that surrounded her. He began to shiver violently, inevitably breathing the freezing air into his lungs.

The door burst open, and he heard a startled shout. "Dean!"

"Son of a bitch!"

Tony could feel ice forming on his skin, and the cold seeped deeply into him. He was going to die frozen solid like Logan and Cheavers had.

Then there was a sound like a shotgun blast, and the cold abruptly stopped. Someone came at him from the right, and he flinched, but it was just Sammy with the throw from the sofa. Dean stood on his left with . . . with a shotgun.

Then they all heard a cocking noise by the door, and all three of them looked towards the sound. Tony saw Gibbs standing there, his pistol trained on the man with the shotgun. "DiNozzo, what's going on here?"

* * *

Dean pointed his shotgun at the man with the Marine-style haircut, waiting for Tony to come up with an explanation that the guy would buy.

"Damn it!" Sam exclaimed, and Dean turned just in time to see Tony collapse bonelessly to the floor. Sam caught him before his head hit, and the white-haired guy took several steps forward.

"What's wrong with him?" he demanded.

"That's a little hard to explain," Dean said.

"Try."

Dean figured this guy had to have been a Marine. He had the same attitude as their father'd had. "Well, see –" Dean started, but he broke off when the man spoke.

"I know who you two are," he said. Dean's shoulders slumped a little. He hated the way those law enforcement types looked at them once they'd discovered their public pasts. "My father is Jackson Gibbs."

"Of Stillwater, Pennsylvania?" Sam asked incredulously. Dean's back straightened and looked at Gibbs with a new curiosity. This wasn't the standard law enforcement reaction, and he wasn't sure what to do with that.

"The same." His eyes went to Tony's shivering form. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded again.

"Vengeful spirit," Sam said. "You're not a hunter, are you?"

"Nope," Gibbs said, abruptly lowering his pistol. "Just know they exist, and that there's a reason for them. Used to see them come to the store when I was a kid."

Dean lowered his shotgun as well, then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, raising the gun at the same time. Iris was back. He shot her with the rock salt, reloaded, and then said, "The getting to know you stuff can come later. Let's get him onto the sofa."

"You do that," Gibbs said, staring at the spot where Iris had been. He turned and walked into the kitchen.

Dean didn't waste time wondering what he was up to, he just took Tony's legs and helped Sam carry him to the couch. Then Sam disappeared in the direction of the bedroom while Dean got a sofa pillow tucked under the guy's head. He leaned down to listen to his chest. There was a rattle there he didn't like.

"What's wrong?" Gibbs asked, and he sounded alarmed.

"It's probably the pneumonia again," Dean said.

"What do you mean, again?" Gibbs shoved him aside, dropping a carton of Morton's salt on the end table. He touched Tony's forehead and bent to listen to his chest. "Damn it, DiNozzo!" he growled.

"What are you yelling at him for?" Sam asked truculently.

Gibbs sent Sam a death glare and grabbed the blankets from him. "You two get the protections up before she comes back." He started tucking Tony in, and Dean thought he looked remarkably like a father with his kid. "I hope you have salt on you, because DiNozzo's out."

Sam picked up the salt carton and shook it. "Well, we've got some in the car, but –" Dean pulled out the flask full of salt, and Sam broke off. Dean began to draw a circle of salt around DiNozzo and Gibbs, making sure there was room inside it for someone to stay with the shallowly breathing man.

"So, you know about salt, but you're not a hunter?" Dean asked.

Gibbs shrugged. "What's the story on this ghost? Why's she after DiNozzo?"

"He used to be a cop," Sam said. "And –"

"So did I," Gibbs replied.

"Military police, which is apparently not the same from her perspective," Sam said. "Besides, we think she's targeted Tony and won't be able to target anyone else till she's . . ."

"Till she's killed him," Gibbs finished for him when Sam seemed disinclined to do so. "So, where is she buried? I seem to recall that's the solution, something about burning the bones?"

"Salt and burn," Dean said. "And she wasn't buried, she was cremated."

"That doesn't make sense," Gibbs said.

"We're trying to figure out what other remains she might have left behind," Sam explained. "It could be a lock of hair, it could be anything, but her family's all dead or left the area, and no one wants to talk about the tragedy."

"When you say anything, what do you mean?" Gibbs asked. "Are we talking teddy bears, or –"

"Body parts," Dean said. "We –" Tony started coughing suddenly, and they all turned towards him. "You need to sit him up," Dean said, but Gibbs was already in the process. He sat the younger man up and started thumping his back.

Once Tony was quiet again, Gibbs lowered him down to the pillow and looked up. "You've dealt with pneumonia before?"

Sam started shaking his head, but Dean nodded. Jerking his head towards his brother, he said, "Sammy. When he was about seven. I was eleven."

"I don't remember that," Sam said.

"I'm not surprised," Dean replied. "You were delirious for a week."

"Antibiotics usually kick it off faster than that," Gibbs said.

Dean shrugged. "I couldn't go to the doctor. Dad was off hunting, and I wouldn't have been able to explain why he wasn't there." He grimaced. "I was about to go anyway, but then Dad got home. After that, we always had antibiotics on hand."

"So, we need to find out what this woman might have left behind that's keeping her around, is that it?" Gibbs asked.

"We need to, yes," Sam said, making the 'we' about him and Dean, not including Gibbs.

Gibbs stood up, eyes narrowing. "Most of your victims don't come with a top investigative team attached, I'm guessing," he said.

"Not that buy what we're telling them, no," Dean said slowly.

"I've got someone I need to call. Dean, look after him." He gave up his spot in the circle and stepped away. A little startled, Dean followed his instructions, and when Tony began to cough again, he got him up and pounded on his back for him, then lowered him down again.


	5. Chapter 5

“This is weird,” Sam said.  “But we can’t get him involved.  He’s a civilian.”

“Actually, he was a Marine, I’d lay odds,” Dean said.

“Not that kind of civilian,” Sam protested.

“Go see what Tony has in his kitchen.  Boil some water and if there’s any tea, bring it.”

“Tea?”  Sam looked around at the very masculine furnishings.  “He’s not going to have tea, Dean.”

“He might bring girls here.  Go look.”

“Top shelf over the stove,” Gibbs said, walking back in.  “Honey’s in the fridge.  He might have some lemon juice, too.”  Brows knit, and still glaring a little at Gibbs, Sam went into the kitchen.  Gibbs looked at Dean.  “You guys got those antibiotics now?” he asked.

“This isn’t about viruses and bacteria,” Dean said.  “She’s still here.  She just can’t come after him directly with the salt.”

“Is that what you meant by again?”  Gibbs gestured for him to step away from Tony, and they swapped places.

“Yeah, he got sick right after we got him away from her, but it only lasted forty minutes or less.  I’m thinking she’s got to somehow work herself up to changing locations, and that’s why it took five days.  The last time, it took her a week, I guess.”

Gibbs scowled.  “The last time?”

Dean nodded.  “Sheriff Arnold Grimes, 1963,” he said.  “He encountered her, and chance got him away from the clearing, but she killed him in his own home after a week.”  Gibbs frowned contemplatively.  “Who’d you call?”

“A friend,” he said.

“Look, we like to minimize the exposure to civilians, dude,” Dean said.  Gibbs raised an eyebrow at the word _dude_ , and Dean had to fight not to add a _sir_.

“Abby’s not precisely a civilian,” Gibbs replied.  “She, like me, is already on the periphery of the hunting community.”

“It’s a girl?  You’re bringing a girl here?  She’s not a cop or anything, is she?”

Gibbs actually chuckled, the brief grin lightening his whole face.  “No, she’s not a cop.”

Sam came back with a mug, the jar of honey and a bottle of lemon juice.  Gibbs took them from him and started mixing.  Sam took Dean by the arm and pulled him aside.  “We need to get out of here and figure out what we need to burn.  Tony’s safe enough for the moment.”

Dean shook his head.  “Not yet.”  He was watching Gibbs lean down over his subordinate.  “I want to see Tony talking again before we go.”

Sam shrugged uneasily, also watching.  His expression was sour, and Dean shook his head.  He didn’t know why Sam was so disposed to dislike Gibbs.  He reminded Dean of Dad.  With an inward snort, he realized that was the problem.  He must remind Sam of Dad, too.

“DiNozzo!” Gibbs barked after several quieter attempts to get a response.

Sam took in a breath to say something, but Dean caught his arm and shook his head. 

Tony’s eyes opened.  “Yeah, Boss?” he said instantly.

“I need you to drink this, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said gently, and he supported Tony’s back while he drank the tea.

“Sweet,” Tony protested, pulling away.

“The honey’s good for your throat,” Gibbs replied, gently insistent.  “Drink.”

“Sorry, Gibbs,” Tony said.  “Didn’t mean to –”

“Don’t apologize, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said.  “It’s a –”

“– sign of weakness, I know,” Tony grated.  “I’m leaving you an agent short.”

“On a case with no living perp,” Gibbs said.  “Not exactly a top priority for me.”  Tony shrugged, took the tea away from Gibbs and kept drinking.  “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m recovering from the plague again,” Tony said weakly.

“You look pretty much like that, too.”

“Great.”  His eyes wandered and he saw Sam and Dean.  “Oh, This is my boss, Agent Gibbs.  Gibbs, these are Sam and Dean . . . Winchester, I guess, unless those are aliases.”

“We’ve met,” Gibbs said.

“You have?  When?”

“About five minutes ago,” Gibbs replied

“Ghosts are real,” Tony said in a hoarse voice.

“DiNozzo, finish your tea and go back to sleep.”

“But ghosts are real, Boss.”

“I know,” Gibbs said calmly.  Tony drifted off a moment later, and Gibbs had to rescue the mug before Tony dropped it in his lap.  There was a knock on the door, and Gibbs looked up.  “Dean, would you mind getting that?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  Sam gave him an irritated look, but Dean just shrugged and headed to the front door.  He pulled back the chain latch that was the only thing holding it shut and opened the door on a vision of . . . well, she was beautiful, no doubting that.  She was also taller than him.  Or maybe not, he realized when he saw she was wearing boots that had like five-inch heels.  Her hair was jet black and fixed in two pony tails, one on each side of her head, and she wore dark red lipstick on her pale face.  She was wearing a red plaid miniskirt, and her legs were covered with mesh stockings that disappeared into the tops of her knee high boots.  She also wore a black t-shirt with a red skull on it.  The motto beneath the skull read, “too cute.”  Dean blinked at her, startled by her extremely nonconventional appearance.  “You Abby?” he asked.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowed.  “Who are you?  Where’s Tony?  Where’s Gibbs?”

“Gibbs sent me to let you in,” Dean said, stepping back for her to enter.

“What happened to the door?” she asked accusingly.

Dean closed the door and used the chain latch to hold it shut again.  “I was in kind of a hurry,” he said with an apologetic cough.

“You did that?” she demanded, turning on him.  “Why?”

“Abbs, get your butt in here!” Gibbs called from the living room, and Abby turned her back on Dean and strode away.  Her back view was as amazing as her front.  She had a spectacular tattoo on her neck, a spider web, only partially concealed by the black dog collar she wore.  He followed her in, a bit overwhelmed by so much femininity packaged so aggressively.

“Tony!” Abby exclaimed in a shrill voice.  She started to rush to the sofa, but came to a dead stop outside the salt line.  “Gibbs, what’s going on here?”

“Tony got himself into trouble, again.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Sam exclaimed.  “He didn’t do anything wrong!  He was just –”

Gibbs gave Sam a narrow glare that actually cut him off, then turned his attention away.  “Looks like Cheavers and Logan ran into trouble more up your Gran’s line than ours.”

“And Tony?” Abby said anxiously, her eyes fixed on the sleeping man.

“Apparently she has a thing for cops,” Gibbs said.

“Who is _she_?” Abby asked.

Gibbs shrugged and looked over at Dean.  It was Sam who answered the question, though.  “Iris Gottlieb.  She was raped and murdered by two police officers on the hill where Eugene Cheavers died.”

“I remember that case,” Abby said, tilting her head.  “It rained the night after, so the forensics was a lost cause, even if they’d had any clue back then, which they mostly didn’t.”

“You remember that case?” Dean repeated, exchanging a look with Sam, who seemed as weirded out as he felt.  “Why would you know anything about a murder in a backwoods Pennsylvania town from 1959?”

Abby shrugged.  “Unsolved murders are kind of a hobby,” she said.

Sam shook his head.  “Well, the problem is, she was cremated, so our usual method isn’t going to work.”

“Can’t salt and burn bones that are already dust,” she replied, nodding.  “What else have you found?”

There was a brief silence, then Dean shrugged.  “Nothing yet.  We came here to warn Tony because we found out she could leave her death site to kill.  Next is to figure out what remains she left behind.  There’s nothing in her hometown.”

Abby pursed her lips thoughtfully, then her eyes grew suddenly intent.  She glanced over at Gibbs, clearly seeking permission to share.  “What you got, Abby?” he asked.

“Evidence,” Abby said, and Gibbs eyes widened.  “She bled out.  I’ve seen pictures of the evidence, and her dress was stiff with blood.”

“Even after the rain?” Sam asked.

“Her body shielded part of the fabric from the water,” Abby said.

“So?” Dean said, obscurely disturbed by the idea.  Why a bloody dress should bother him more than the actual corpse, he didn't know, but it seemed to.

“So, that dress might still be in an evidence lock up somewhere,” Abby replied.

“Don’t they destroy evidence for cases that old?” Sam asked.

“Not unsolved cases,” Abby said.  “And not always.  It depends on if they need space, or if they’ve got efficient people in charge, or if the evidence got lost, or any number of factors.”

“Is there any way to find out?” Dean asked.

Abby shook her head.  “Hard to say.  I can look into it, but chances are, records that old aren’t computerized.”

“You get on that, Abby,” Gibbs said.  “Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, though.”

“I know,” Abby said cheekily.  “Who’s going to look after Tony?” she asked.

Before Gibbs could answer, Sam said, “I thought that’s what she was here for.”  Dean had been assuming the same thing, since Gibbs clearly intended to accompany them.

Gibbs shook his head and stood up.  “Dean will be looking after him.”

“I will?” Dean exclaimed.  “Look, Agent Gibbs, I don’t know –”

“You know how to deal with pneumonia,” Gibbs said flatly.  “You know how to deal with ghosts.  And you’re big enough to restrain him if he gets delusional.”

“Um . . . yeah, I guess,” Dean said.  Put like that it seemed almost logical.

“And Sam’s with me,” Gibbs added.  His eyes seemed to fall on Abby by accident.  “Abby, why are you still here?” he asked.

“Sorry, Gibbs.”  She gave him a real, honest-to-God salute and hurried out.  Dean followed her to chain the door back up.  She paused and handed him a card.  “My cell and office phones, in case you need me.”  He took it and she caught his hand.  “You make sure nothing happens to my Tony.”

“Your Tony?  You two an item?”  Dean felt slightly disappointed by the notion.

“No,” Abby said.  “Just take care of him, okay?”

“Sure.”

After she released his hand and left, he put the chain on and went back towards the living room.  He could hear Sam and Gibbs talking, and Sam sounded pissed.

“We’re not your team,” Sam growled.  “You can’t just order us around.”

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.  “You got a better plan to keep DiNozzo alive and deal with your spirit friend?”

“That’s not the point,” Sam snapped.

“What is?” Gibbs asked coolly as Dean returned.

Sam looked flustered, and Dean knew what the problem was.  Sammy was trying to have an argument with Dad with a man who wasn’t cooperating.  “Dean and me, we work together,” Sam said finally.

“And I’d rather have DiNozzo on my six than you.  What’s your point?”  Sam gaped at him, and Gibbs shrugged.  “I know what to do now.  I could just leave you here.”

“No, it’s a good plan,” Dean said over Sam’s spluttering.  “And weird crap could pop up here at the last moment.  Sammy, go with him.”

“Dean!”

Dean dug in his pocket and pulled out the keys.  “Get what I’ll need out of the trunk, you guys had better take the Impala.”

“Dean, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“The man’s right.  He doesn’t know how to deal with it if she throws a curve ball sometime during the night,” Dean said.  “And he might be able to get places that we can’t without a lot of . . .”

“Lying?” Gibbs suggested when Dean faltered.

“Creative editing of the truth,” Dean replied.

Gibbs nodded.  “Are we done wasting time?” he asked.

“Sammy?” Dean asked.

Sam stomped to the front door.  Dean followed him to fix the door after he went out.  “Dean?” Sam said, his jaw clenched.

“What, Sammy?”

His brother just stared at him for a long moment, then stalked down the hallway towards the elevator.  Dean shrugged and went back to the living room. 

“Ghosts don’t like getting shot, huh?” Gibbs asked.

“It’s not that,” Dean replied.  He pulled one of the spare rounds out of his pocket and handed it over.  “They’re loaded with rock salt.”

“Huh.”  Gibbs looked it over, then handed it back.  “Good thinking.”

Dean grinned.  “My dad, he was a Marine.”

“Semper fi,” Gibbs said.

Dean blinked at him.  “Yeah, that.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam slammed the trunk closed and grabbed the bag he'd hastily packed for Dean. He couldn't believe that Dean was going along with this insanity. Agent Gibbs ordering them around, getting civilians involved, because whatever she knew, that Abby girl was a civilian. A thrill seeker. He knew the type. Goth chicks were just weird.

There was a woman with an active little girl waiting for the elevator when he returned. He didn't meet her eyes and punched the button for fifteen when he got on.

"Would you hit seventeen for me?" she asked. Sam grunted and hit the button. "Thanks. Maddie, stop it."

A moment later, Sam felt a tugging on the bag. "What's in here?" the little girl asked. "It's all lumpy."

"Maddie!" her mother exclaimed. "I'm sorry."

Sam transferred the bag to his other hand and shrugged. "No problem."

He got off when the doors opened and headed down to Tony's apartment. He knocked and Dean came out to let him in. "We're going to have to do something about that," Dean said, looking at the broken door frame.

"I grabbed a chunk of wood," Sam replied. "He's got to have a hammer and nails somewhere."

They went into the living room and put the question to Gibbs. He took the chunk of wood and grunted something incoherent, then went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, they heard hammering. Sam rolled his eyes. "What a control freak," he muttered.

"Sammy?"

"What, Dean?" Sam growled. "Am I supposed to be okay with the fact that you just let a total stranger take charge of the situation?"

Dean gave him his puzzled look, which just pissed Sam off all the more. "He's right, Sammy. I –"

"It's like you were just waiting for someone to come along with the right attitude and give you orders."

"Sammy, that's out of line!" Dean retorted.

"He's not Dad, Dean."

"I could say the same thing to you, Sammy. You're acting just like you did with Dad."

Tony started coughing, and Dean turned away instantly to tend to him. Sam did not get what was going on with that. Dean had been like this before, when Tony had gotten sick after the first attack. It was weird seeing him go all nursemaid on a stranger. When he'd lowered Tony to the pillow again, Sam said, "Dean, this is nuts. We should leave Agent Gibbs –"

"In the lurch?" Dean asked. "What would Dad say if we left a fellow Marine like this?"

"Done," Gibbs said, and both Sam and Dean turned to him in surprise. "Now, why do you want us to take your car?"

"Show him the arsenal," Dean said, and Sam's jaw dropped. "Just do it, Sammy, half the ammo in there came from his dad."

"We only have his word on that," Sam replied sharply.

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled out his cell phone. "Fine." He pressed a series of buttons and then pressed speaker phone and held the phone out. Gibbs looked uneasy, and Sam kept his grin private. "Stillwater General Store, can I help you?"

"Hey, Jack," Dean said. "This is Dean Winchester."

"Hi, Dean," Jack's voice said. "Is my boy giving you a hard time?"

Sam's eyes shot to Gibbs' face. His jaw was set, but he didn't say anything.

"Not so much," Dean said. "You mind giving me a description of him?"

Jack laughed. "Sure. He's about six foot, Marine haircut. His hair was still mostly brown the last time I saw him, but I'd bet it's a lot more white by now."

"He kind of bossy?" Dean asked. Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"In spades," Jack said. "Don't tell him I said so, though. I got to thank you boys, by the way, even though I know you didn't do it on purpose. I haven't heard from Leroy in years, so having him call me today was kind of nice." Gibbs abruptly turned away and walked out of the room.

Dean glanced over at Sam, who was now feeling faintly embarrassed at having caused an obscure emotional situation. "Thanks, Jack," Dean said.

"No problem. Take care."

Dean clicked off the phone and looked at Sam. "Awkward," he muttered.

Gibbs emerged from the kitchen with a travel cup full of something that smelled like coffee. Sam wished he'd thought of that, but he couldn't make free with Tony's stuff the way Gibbs obviously felt able to. "You satisfied?" the older man asked, his tone acid.

"Totally," Dean said.

"Good." The word was clipped off, not inviting further conversation about the phone call. Gibbs cleared his throat. "Did Abby give you her contact information?" he asked. Dean nodded. "Good. She can bring you anything you need." Gibbs turned to Sam. "You ready?"

"Sure, I guess," Sam said, and, ignoring the glare from Dean, he led the way to the front door. He paused for a moment, staring at the patched door frame. Gibbs had done a much neater and more workmanlike job of it than either he or Dean would have. Shrugging, he opened the door and stomped out. Gibbs stopped and locked the deadbolt behind them. They stood silently in the elevator, and Sam wondered suddenly just how much of his argument with Dean the man had overheard.

He walked out to the car swiftly, not bothering to see if Gibbs was keeping up. He was older, maybe if he discovered he had trouble keeping pace with Sam, he'd get the point that he shouldn't be involved. When Sam reached the car, though, he found that Gibbs was right with him, and showed no signs of having exerted himself. Sam flung the trunk open, then opened the second hatch, propping it up with the old shotgun. He stepped back and let Gibbs look.

The ex-Marine gave a sort of intrigued grunt, shrugged, and turned to face him.

Sam had been expecting something a little more intense, so he was caught short. After a second, he dropped the old shotgun back into place and closed things down. "That's why we take our car," he said.

"Fine by me. I've got my go bag in my truck." He trotted off down the row of cars that were parked by the curb, then came back at the same pace, still not looking the least out of breath. Sam unlocked the doors and climbed in, irritated beyond words by this man who seemed to expect to command any situation he was in.

Then he realized that he had no idea where they were heading. For one thing, Dean usually handled that sort of decision, and for another, Gibbs had obviously developed a plan that he hadn't fully informed them of. "Where to?" Sam asked.

"Barton," Gibbs replied.

Sam started the car and pulled away from the curb. "Why?" he asked.

"County seat."

"Ah, I see." And Sam did see. County seat, therefore county offices. No doubt that's where they'd find the evidence lock up. After several more moments of silence, he cleared his throat. "Leroy?" he asked.

Gibbs gave him an unreadable look, then said, "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam could tell from his expression and tone that he knew exactly how much Sam hated to be called that. "Gibbs. Got it. Right." They both sat silently for a few moments longer, and then Sam found the quiet unbearable. "What's a go bag?" he asked.

"What was in the bag you gave your brother?" Gibbs countered.

"Salt, ammo, some clothes." Sam shrugged. "Just what he might need over the next couple of days."

"Exactly," Gibbs said.

Sam opened his mouth, and then clapped his jaw shut. Evidently Gibbs was into the Socratic method.

"You got any records on this Iris Gottlieb?" Gibbs asked suddenly.

"Sure," Sam said. "In the backseat. There's a folder." Gibbs peered back, reached and sat back down, opening the file and beginning to read.

"Mind if I turn on some music?" Sam asked. Gibbs shrugged. Sam reached out and turned on the radio. One of Dean's tapes was already in and it started playing. Sam really wished his brother would put in a CD player, or better yet, an MP3 player, but he'd live with what he had for now. It beat silence.

* * *

Dean went into Tony's bedroom, looking for more blankets. Looked like Sam had already stripped the bed bare. Dean opened the closets and found a lot of suits but no more blankets. How many suits did one man need, for pity's sake? He flipped them back and forth, looking at them. So this was what people meant when they talked about fine menswear. It was pretty cool, he guessed. He closed the closet and checked a couple of drawers that looked deep enough to contain more blankets. Nothing but gym clothes and a small personal arsenal.

Dean shut the drawers and went out into the hallway. There was another closet. He opened it and found two empty shelves between neat piles of towels and crisp clean bed sheets. Dean turned around and looked at Tony. Could he already have every blanket in the apartment on him already?

He dug in the drawers in the bathroom and found a heating pad. It seemed like an odd thing for a guy as young as Tony to have, but maybe he had an old athletic injury or something.

The only other room was arranged as an office. Dean heard coughing from the living room and hurried back out. Putting the shotgun on the floor inside the salt line, he helped Tony sit up so he could cough up the gunk in his chest. When Dean made to lower him again, though, Tony grabbed his arm.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Get me another pillow, would you?" Tony said. "I want to sit up."

"Sure," Dean said, "but let me lay you down for a minute."

Tony shook his head and held onto the back of the sofa. "A pillow, please?"

Dean went back into the bedroom and grabbed a pillow off Tony's bed. He heard the shotgun go off in the living room, and he hoped Tony's neighbors didn't report them to the police. He dropped the pillow and ran into the living room. Tony was leaning against the back of the sofa, the shotgun resting along his leg on the cushion, his breathing labored.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"She came back," Tony said. "Stared at me." He shuddered. "Creepy."

"You know she can't get to you in the salt circle, right?" Dean walked over and took the shotgun back.

"Salt . . ." Tony looked around. "My cleaner is going to shoot me."

"It keeps you alive." Dean's brows knit. "Unless your cleaner actually shoots you," he added with a shrug. He went and got the pillow and brought it back, tucking it behind Tony.

"Janice? No, she's a sweetheart." Tony's breathing seemed to be easing.

"So, why'd you say she'd kill you?" Dean asked.

"She's got the whole mama thing going on me," Tony replied with a snort. "Leaves me notes about my bad habits, asking me when I'm going to get married, telling me what not to eat. And when I stay home from work because I'm sick, she cossets me and bosses me around."

"That must be nice," Dean said, remembering dimly how his mother had acted when he was sick one time. "She remind you of your mom?"

Tony snorted, and Dean saw the effort it took him to stave off a coughing fit. "Hell, no," he managed to say finally.

"I'll grab you a mug of tea," Dean said. "Stay inside the salt and she can't touch you."

"Great."

Dean chuckled at the dismay in Tony's voice and made the tea. When he came back, Tony was looking at him with a sarcastic grin. "What?"

"How am I supposed to go to the bathroom?" Tony asked, pointing towards the door.

Dean blinked at him, and followed his finger. "Um . . . that's not usually much of an issue."

"It is today," Tony said.

Dean moistened his lips, tilted his head and asked the awkward question. "Number one or number two?"

Eyes glinting sardonically, Tony held up one finger.

Once the messy details were over, Dean settled down on a cushion on the floor in front of the sofa. "So, what was your mom like when you were growing up? If you don't mind my asking."

"Mom was . . . an upper crust British lush," Tony said after a contemplative pause, and Dean turned to stare at him, startled. "I was raised by nannies till I was ten, then I went away to school. I rarely spent much time with her, truthfully."

"Wow," Dean said. "My dad got drunk a lot, but I wouldn't have called him a lush."

Tony shrugged. "My mother started drinking at breakfast and kept it up at a steady pace all day long. My father would make fun of her, saying that at least he didn't start his drinking till after five, but he more than made up for the late start with quantity. They were both usually passed out by eleven. I'm surprised he hasn't died from cirrhosis of the liver by now." His brows knit. "I don't usually talk about this stuff."

"The fever's probably getting to you," Dean said.

"At least McGeek isn't here," Tony muttered.

"Who's McGeek?" Dean assumed it had to be a nickname, and if not, the man should get his name changed promptly.

"Our team genius," Tony said. "Computer whiz. Pain in my ass."

"I get that," Dean remarked, thinking about Sam.

"What's your mom like?" Tony asked.

"My mom . . . died when I was four," Dean said, his face going stiff.

Tony's brows furrowed. "I'm sorry. So, I guess you don't remember much."

"More than Sam does, which isn't saying much since he was six months old."

"Man, that sucks. My mom waited till I was eight to go out in her fiery crash."

"Car accident?" Dean asked, wondering if she'd been driving drunk, and if she'd gone on or stuck around. He shook his head. Being a hunter led to weird thoughts.

"Yup. Irony is, she was killed by a drunk driver. After all the times she drove when she was three sheets to the wind without a single accident, she got killed by a drunk driver."

"That's wild," Dean said, not sure what to say. "So, are you close to your dad?" That elicited another snort, which led to a coughing fit, which led to more tea. When Dean could finally sit down again, he said, "Sorry, was that a touchy topic?"

"No, just a funny question," Tony said. "My dad disowned me when I was twelve, so, no, we're not close."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am so far behind on _NCIS_ that it's not funny, so if we learned something more about his mother (in that way Tony has of randomly throwing out his history at odd moments) in any season later than, say, 7, I don't know it, so if this doesn't match, that's why.
> 
> 2) Yes, the Winchesters have now met a man with a more screwed up father/son relationship than they have, either one. John may have left them in another state, in fact, I have no doubt that it happened more than once when it worked out that was the closer place to stay. However, I'm certain he never forgot they were there and had to wait for room service bills to clue him in.


	7. Chapter 7

Gibbs had reading glasses. Sam found it vaguely bizarre to be going out on a hunt with a man who needed reading glasses. The older man flipped through the file slowly, and Sam wondered what he was reading for. The basics of the situation were all that was needed and those could be gleaned in no time at all.

"You guys figure out who did it, by any chance?" Gibbs asked at long last.

"Who did what?"

"Who killed her," Gibbs said.

Sam glanced over at him. "No, we haven't. The guys are probably dead by now, and it doesn't make a difference in terms of stopping her."

"It happened in 1959," Gibbs pointed out. "That's only forty-eight years ago. The killers could quite easily still be alive. A man who was twenty in '59 would be in his late sixties now. A man of forty would be in his late eighties."

Sam grimaced. He didn't exactly like the idea of leaving a murderer and rapist out there, but it really wasn't his brief. "Hunters don't go after humans, sir," he said, and he couldn't believe that the _sir_ had slipped out. "We –"

"I'm not a sir," Gibbs interjected, cutting him off. "I work for a living."

Sam found this off-putting despite the fact that he hadn't intended to call the man _sir_ at any point. "Of course not, sir," he said, and Gibbs' eyes narrowed. Sam shrugged. "In any case, humans aren't our area. That would be up to people like you."

"Exactly," Gibbs said. "And I would think the girl would rest easier if her murderers were caught."

"Isn't this kind of outside your jurisdiction?" Sam pointed out. "No military involvement that I know about."

"Do you know for a fact that none of the suspects in the case ever served in the Navy or Marine Corps?" Gibbs asked.

"That's not the point, this all happened nearly fifty years ago in another state –"

"NCIS is federal, not local," Gibbs said implacably.

"And we don't have any way to penalize the bastards if we do catch them. Hunters don't kill people. Just monsters."

Gibbs slammed the file shut. "Just how do you define monster?" he asked.

Sam glowered at him. "Non-human things that kill and destroy human life, but whom the law can't touch because the only proof is too esoteric to present in the courts."

"Huh," Gibbs said, but it wasn't a question, it was an acceptance of the definition as food for thought. Sam fumed silently. He didn't need some civilian judging him, however peripherally he was connected to hunting. "Well, if there's any evidence I can see pointing to a convictable offense, I'm going to alert the authorities to it."

"As a note, it might be better to do that without me around," Sam said.

"Because you're wanted by the FBI and a couple of local jurisdictions around the country?" Gibbs asked.

"How do you know that?" Sam demanded. Gibbs just looked at him, raising an eyebrow and Sam shrugged, acknowledging the stupidity of the question.

"Are you coming into the evidence lock up with me?" Gibbs asked.

Sam shrugged. "I had planned on it."

Gibbs gave him an odd little grin. "So, what's the difference?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Last I checked, cops look more closely at guys who present evidence of wrongdoing by other cops."

"True enough," Gibbs admitted. He shrugged, still wearing that infuriating little grin. "Let's see where the evidence takes us."

"You do realize that we're intending to destroy any evidence we find," Sam pointed out.

"Not if it doesn't contain DNA from our victim."

"Oddly enough, I don't tend to think of her as our victim," Sam retorted. "She's killed more than one innocent cop over the years, and she wants to add your friend Tony to that list."

"None of which would have happened if she hadn't been brutally murdered by two cops who got away with it," Gibbs replied calmly.

Sam couldn't argue with that, and he had enough self-knowledge to know that he wouldn't ordinarily even try to argue with that. Something about Agent Gibbs just set his teeth on edge and made him want to challenge everything the man said.

"You up for driving all night?" Sam asked.

"If I need a nap, I'll take one," Gibbs replied. Then he looked out the window and went silent again. Irritated almost beyond bearing, Sam turned the radio back on and cranked it up.

* * *

Gibbs didn't know what was up with the boy, he just knew that Sam Winchester didn't think much of him. When they stopped for gas just over the state line, he got out of the car to stretch his legs and walked away from the pumps to get some space. When he thought he was far enough away, he called Abby.

"I don't have anything for you yet," she said instantly.

"Okay. I want you to find out everything you can about Sam and Dean's father."

"John Winchester," Abby replied instantly. "According to Gran he started hunting sometime in the mid or early eighties. Kind of a hothead and very controlling." Gibbs nodded, watching Sam go into the store. "She said from what she'd heard, Dean is a nice boy, but she doesn't know anything about the younger brother except that he went away to school. She's going to make a few calls and find out what she can."

"Anything in the public file about John Winchester?" Gibbs asked.

"He was a marine, served in Viet Nam. Same kind of arrest history as the brothers. I'll call you if I get anything else."

"Also, what's the current status on the guys who were in the sheriff's department back in '59?"

"I don't know," Abby said, sounding startled to discover she hadn't anticipated all of Gibbs' requests. "I'll check it out. You aren't thinking of solving it, are you?"

"Call me when you've got something," Gibbs said, and shut his phone. He walked back to the Impala, looking her over. Sam emerged from the shop with a white plastic bag and two cups of coffee. He looked up as the boy approached. "This car is in great condition," he said.

Sam handed him one of the cups of coffee. "It's Dean's baby, not mine." He buried a yawn in a swallow of coffee.

"If you want some sleep, I could drive."

"I'd have to be dead," Sam said. "Dean barely lets me drive it."

Gibbs nodded. "She's a great lady. If she were mine, I'd be protective, too," he said with a grin, stroking the car's roof as Sam went around to the driver's side.

"It's a car," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Oh."

"If you wanted to butter someone up with that kind of talk, you should have brought Dean."

Gibbs found this an extremely perplexing remark. He tilted his head, gazing at the boy in bemusement. "Are you always this cranky?" he asked. Sam's eyes widened, and then he glowered. Gibbs shrugged. "I just like the car." He climbed in and sat down. "Thanks for the coffee."

Sam stood for a moment outside the car, and Gibbs knew he was controlling irritation. He sat back and took a long swallow of a reasonable coffee facsimile, wondering what the hell the kid was irritated about.

* * *

Tony seemed to decide that he was talking too freely and started babbling on about women, a conversational topic that Dean felt equally easy talking about. "So, one-night stands are really all you ever go for?" Tony asked, grinning.

"Tried something else once, turned out it wasn't for me," Dean said lightly, not wanting to get into detail about Cassie. "Much better to find someone who's just after a quick bit of fun and move on in the morning."

Tony nodded. "I haven't run into that kind of girl much since college," he said with a wistful grimace. "All the ones I meet seem to be looking for long term, even if they're not looking for forever."

"You're not going the right places," Dean replied.

Tony laughed. "And I'm not leaving town after a few days," he pointed out.

"No, that is a drawback, I suppose," Dean said. "Though I've run into a few of my . . . well, you can't really call them exes, I suppose." Tony shook his head, grinning broadly, though his eyes weren't particularly focused. He had a good game face, but he was still fevered, still foggy. "You know, you can go to sleep for a while."

Iris showed up on the other side of the sofa, gazing down malevolently at Tony. Since Tony hadn't noticed her, since she couldn't get any closer, and since the salt kept her out, Dean didn't feel inclined to shoot her at the moment. After all, sooner or later, someone was going to complain about the loud noises coming from this apartment. It was getting late.

"I don't want to sleep," Tony said. "I don't like the dreams I keep having."

"What dreams?"

Tony shivered. "Nasty ones," he said, but Dean could tell he wasn't going to share. "Anyway, so, you said you tried the serious thing once, what soured it?"

Nine times out of ten, Dean would shut things down after being asked a question that personal. Apparently, this was the tenth. "This," he said, waving the shotgun briefly. Iris vanished again, but he knew that wouldn't work often. "My life."

"She couldn't hack it?"

Dean laughed, a short bitter sound. "I don't know. I told her about it and she decided I was making up a story as an excuse to break up with her." His brows knit. "Or to get her to break up with me. Something like that. You know, chick logic."

"Do I ever," Tony said. "Some women seem to think that after three dates, you're going steady or something like that. You're not supposed to see other women, and you might even think about picking out china patterns."

Dean chuckled. "Never got that far with anyone. Cassie was in college, so she wasn't thinking about marriage, and most of the chicks I pick up know exactly what we're doing."

"Oh, I actually asked a girl to marry me once," Tony said, and Dean's eyes widened. "Yeah, I know, I thought it was weird, too, but I did."

"What'd she say?"

"No. And then she married a friend of mine. He was gorgeous, smart, rich . . ." Tony sighed. "Oh well."

"I told you how I run into some of the girls I've been with before from time to time." Tony nodded wearily. "Well, usually they're married, have one and a half kids along, and look kind of . . . tired."

Tony snorted. "And the other times, the _un_ usual times, they're twenty times hotter than they were and are totally not into you."

Dean sighed. "True enough," he said, though he could remember a time or two when they had been pretty damned into him.

Tony's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't happen to you much, does it?" he asked, and Dean tried to look modest. The other man rolled his eyes. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"That's a mighty personal question," Dean retorted.

"Well?" Tony asked expectantly.

"A week ago, in . . . Pittsburgh, I think."

Tony thumped his head back on the sofa. Then he let out a cry of alarm because Iris appeared right above him. Dean grabbed a handful of salt and said, "Close your eyes." Then he flung the salt right through Iris. She vanished and Tony brushed stray salt off his face and looked down at him. "You okay?" Dean asked.

"I'll live," Tony said. "I may not want to, but I will."

"Come on, Tony, you're young, single, hot, what's not to live for?"

"Can you keep a secret?" Tony asked, looking kind of furtive.

"Sure," Dean replied.

In a hoarse whisper, Tony said, "I haven't been laid for more than six months."

"Holy crap!" Dean exclaimed. "Why not?"

"I keep screwing it up," Tony said despondently. "Sabotaging myself. I try too hard, or I talk about my ex . . . excessively."

"What about your ex?" Dean asked.

Tony sighed. "I miss her," he said, his eyes going distant. "And she'll never want to see me again."

"What did you do? Sleep with her sister?"

"No, but I may have gotten her father killed."

Dean grimaced. "Oh, that's not good."

"Yeah," Tony said. "Never mind that he was an international arms smuggler and a bad guy, I may have gotten him killed, so I'm evil."

Dean blinked at him. "You horrible person."

"And now she's in Africa."

Dean was beginning to have trouble following this, but since the guy was probably delirious, that wasn't precisely shocking. "So, she hates you from Africa?"

"All the way," Tony replied, and Dean realized to his great surprise that the man he'd had this long conversation about what fun it was to be a player had actually fallen in love and had it go wrong. "That's a long way," Tony added. "She hates me from a whole 'nother continent. That's depressing."

"Would it be less depressing if she hated you from another state?"

"I could visit her then," Tony said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Are you forgetting about the 'she hates you' part?"

"I might, maybe, be able to persuade her not to hate me," Tony said. "But not without getting close to her. And she's in Africa. I can't drive to Africa."

He was going maudlin, and Dean really didn't know how to handle it. For one thing, he didn't know what kind of a girl this ex-girlfriend was. For all he knew, Tony might be better off without her. "You know, planes fly to Africa."

"Yeah, but she's with Médecins sans Frontières," Tony said.

"God bless you," Dean replied. "What the hell is that?"

"Doctors Without Borders," Tony said. "She's a doctor."

"Apparently one without borders," Dean observed. "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

"I did, in French." He tilted his head. "She's French."

Dean could think of several reasons why that might be good, but he had a feeling that none of them were relevant to Tony's current frame of mind. "Why'd she go to Africa if she's from France?"

"She's not from France. Her father's from France. She's from here, but she's French. Half French."

"This paragon got a name?"

"Jeanne," Tony sighed. "But she's not a paragon. She tried to have me arrested for murder. That's why I think it might work."

"Excuse me?" Dean exclaimed incredulously.

"We've both done something hurtful."

"You got her father killed and she accused you of murder, I can see how that's –"

"Well, it's not exactly like that. See, we were investigating her father, and –"

"This is all way too complicated for real life," Dean announced. "It sounds like something off of Dr. Sexy."

"My life does not sound like anything off that stupid show," Tony retorted.

"Stupid!" Dean shook his head. "You clearly have no taste."

"And your taste is obviously all in your . . ." Tony paused, seeming to get lost in mid-sentence. He blinked a couple of times, then refocused on Dean's face. "What was I going to say?" he asked pathetically.

"That all my taste is in my mouth," Dean said. "You should go back to sleep."

"Don' wanna," Tony murmured as he fell asleep despite his best efforts. Dean covered him more snugly with the blankets against the frigid air. A fresh wave of cold swept over him, and Dean grabbed the shotgun. He fired straight into the reappearing ghost and cracked the shotgun open for two more shells. He held the gun vertical beside his ear, ready to send the bitch packing when she showed up again.

A noise from the direction of the entry hall made him step out of the salt circle and put his back to the wall beside the entrance to this room. He didn't know who was here, but Gibbs and Sam would have called if they'd been coming back. Stealthy steps approached down the hallway, and he glanced around the room to make sure that Iris hadn't come back before focusing his attention on the intruder. If it was some sneak thief figuring that an apartment that had already been broken into would be an easy mark, he was going to get the surprise of his life.


	8. Chapter 8

A handgun came around the corner, and from the angle, Dean could tell the person wasn’t far behind.  He reached out and grabbed the barrel, wrenching it downward, out of the intruder’s grasp.  A moment later he was fighting for his life, and a moment after that he knew he was outclassed.  She might not have his brute strength, but her speed and skill made him feel like a turtle.  All of which meant that his only hope was to find some way to pin her or knock her out.  His first attempt ended with him sliding across the floor, and that was when he saw that they had scuffed the salt circle.

He dove for the shotgun and wound up with a pistol barrel by his head.  “Who are you?” the woman demanded with an accent Dean didn’t recognize.

A desperate croak from the sofa made them both turn.  A colorless figure bent over Tony, her hand on his cheek.  Tony stared up at her in horror.  The woman with the pistol now turned it on the ghost.  Rolling his eyes, Dean brought his shotgun to bear on Iris.  They both fired at the same time, her round going through the ghost into the couch and his causing her to dissipate.

In the comparative silence that followed the gunshots, all they could hear was Tony’s labored breathing.  When he started coughing a second later, Dean rushed across, put the gun down within easy reach and got him sitting up.  Supporting him with one arm across his chest, he began pounding on his back to loosen the phlegm.  He found himself wondering if it was real phlegm or ghost phlegm.

He heard a beeping behind him and looked up at the woman.  “Who do you think you’re calling?”

“The ambulance,” she replied.  “He is coughing up blood.”

“No amount of antibiotics is going to cure ghost sickness,” Dean snapped.  “Hang up.”

“Ghost sickness?” she said, her eyes going wide.

“Hang up your damned phone before you get the cops coming to investigate.  I don’t think Gibbs would be real thrilled with that.”

Her phone clapped shut.  “Gibbs knows you are here?”

Tony’s coughing had eased, and Dean lowered him back to a semi-reclining position.  There was a dark substance on his lip, but it didn’t look like blood.  He grabbed the washcloth he’d been wiping Tony’s forehead with and wiped it up, peering at it.  “This ain’t blood, lady,” he said.  “It’s . . . euw.”  He looked at Tony, appalled by the thought that he had ectoplasm in his lungs.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“You don’t want to know,” he said.  It had gotten on the blankets, too, but there weren’t any more blankets so it would just have to stay there.

“I do want to know,” she said firmly.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Oh, right, rule 47.”

Her jaw dropped.  “How do you know about that?”

“Tony  might have mentioned it when I told him he didn’t want to know something.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, it’s ectoplasm.”

“Ectoplasm?” she repeated.  “But it is not green, nor is it translucent.”

“What?”  Dean stared at her for a moment before the reference kicked in.  “You mean like in _Ghostbusters_?”  She nodded.  “That’s fiction.  This shit’s real, and this is what it looks like.”  He shook his head.  “There’s not usually this much of it.  I hope it goes away when she does, or he’ll have to cough it all up.”

“What is ectoplasm?” she asked.

Dean shrugged.  “Um . . .”  That was really a Sam question.  “I guess it’s the physical manifestation of a really angry spirit, and this bitch is seriously pissed off.”

“No, I mean what is it?” she asked.  “What is it made of?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said.

“Is it bad for him?  Will the substance do him permanent harm?”

“I . . .”  He shook his head and pulled out his cell phone.  Hitting number 2 on the speed dial, he held the phone to his ear.  When the woman started to expostulate, he held up a finger.

There were two rings, then a voice came over the line.  “Singer Salvage.”

“Bobby, I got kind of a weird question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Is ectoplasm poisonous?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to eat it,” Bobby said sarcastically.  Dean didn’t quite know how to respond to that.  He gulped, looking for words, but the silence must have spoken volumes.  “What’s the matter, Dean?” Bobby asked in a less aggravated tone.

“I got a guy here who’s coughing it up,” Dean said.  “What do I do?”

“Pray,” Bobby said.

Dean ground his teeth.  “Is that all you got, Bobby?  Because I really need to know if this guy needs some kind of heroic measures.”

“Is it Sam?” Bobby asked.

“No, it’s not Sam.  It’s . . . it’s a civilian who had the bad luck to get targeted by one nasty ghost.”

“I honestly don’t know, Dean, I’ve never heard of anything like that.  I can do some research.”

“Please.”

“But I think your best hope is to find the remains and deal with them and hope that resolves the issue.”

“Duh,” Dean said.  “Sam and this guy’s boss are off doing that right now.”

“You sent Sam off with a civilian?” Bobby exclaimed.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “First, this guy’s a scary ex-marine.”

“And second?” Bobby demanded.

“You know Jack Gibbs, over in Pennsylvania?”

“Everyone knows Jack Gibbs.”

“I sent Sam off with his son.  He knows about the supernatural, and he’s smart enough to know what he doesn’t know.”

“Hunh,” Bobby said, sounding mollified.

“Who is this Bobby?” the woman asked him, her patience apparently at an end.

Dean glared at her.  “One of the smartest guys I know.  Give me a minute.”

“Who you talking to?” Bobby asked.  “That doesn’t sound like a guy.”

“I don’t know her name, actually, but given her reactions, I’m guessing she’s a friend of our target.”

“How many civilians have you brought into this thing?” Bobby demanded.

“Look, this one broke into the apartment.  What the hell was I supposed to do about that?”  Dean shook his head.  “Call me if you find anything.  I’ve just thought of another possible resource.”

“Another –”  Dean hit end and then dug in his pocket.

“You are Dean Winchester,” the woman announced.

Dean looked at her suspiciously.  “That depends.”

“On what?”

“What you want to do to Dean Winchester.”  He gave her an appreciative look.  “Who are you?”

“Ziva David,” she said, her tone clipped.  “I want an explanation of what is going on, or I will call Gibbs.”

Gibbs appeared to be a name to conjure with around here.  He nodded.  “I can do that, but give me a minute,” he said.  He checked on Tony and found him breathing as well as could be expected.  “Let me make a quick call first?”

“Who is this other resource?” she asked.

He winked at her.  “That’s classified.”  Then he dialed the number and put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”  Abby’s voice was clearly recognizable, but he knew that this phone gave no hint as to his identity.

“Hey, this is Dean,” he said.  “Can you verify the identity of someone for me?”

“Sure,” Abby said, sounding mystified.

“About five-nine, stunningly beautiful, long dark hair, dark eyes, wearing a Star of David, kind of pissed off.”

“That sounds like Ziva.  Is Ziva there?”

“I guess so,” Dean replied.  “She a friend of Tony’s?”

“Totally.  They’re partners.”

“I see.  I have another question.”

“Shoot.”

“Gibbs mentioned someone he called your ‘gran’?”

“Yeah?”

“Is she still . . .”  He paused, feeling awkward.  With other hunters it was no big thing to ask if someone was still alive.  It was halfway expected.  With civilians, it was more uncomfortable.

“She’s alive and living well in New Orleans,” Abby replied.  “Why?”

“Does she know much about ghosts, or did she hunt something else?”

“A little bit of everything, but do you know how many ghosts there are in Louisiana?”

“Yeah, I . . . wait, are you related to the Desmarais clan?”

Abby laughed.  “Gran is Heloise Desmarais.  If you’ve heard of them at all . . .”

“I’ve heard of her.  Holy crap!”  He shook his head.  “Can you contact her and find out what she knows about ectoplasm?”

“Sure, what’s the problem?”

Dean grimaced.  “Tony is coughing it up.”

“You mean it’s like inside him?” Abby exclaimed.

“And I have no idea what that could be doing to him beyond the obvious pneumonia.”

“I’ll call Gran, but if Ziva’s there, get a sample and have her bring it to me.”

“Why?”

“I’ll put it into my mass spectrometer and see what it’s made of.”

“Your whosiwhatsits?”

“Mass spectrometer.  Just send a sample, and I’ll call you when I’ve got something from Gran.”

“I wouldn’t begin to know how to take a sample for a whosiwhatsits.”

“Ziva knows.  Let me talk to her.”

Reluctantly, Dean handed the phone over.  Ziva’s eyebrows went up when he offered it to her, but she took it.  “Hello?”  There was a brief pause, and then her eyes widened.  “Abby?  You know about this?”  She nodded.  “A sample, yes I can do that.  Tony should have something I can use.”  She nodded again, and then her eyes flicked to Dean, her lips curving in an enigmatic smile.  “Yes.  You are right.  I will be there soon.”  With that she hung up and turned towards the kitchen.  Dean watched her go, admiring her rear view.  His jaw hurt from a couple of well landed punches, and he knew he had bruises all over his torso and legs from their little exercise, but a guy could get used to that for a girl that hot.  This Jeanne chick must be truly amazing given that Tony had Ziva next to him every day.

“Just tell me the probie’s not here.”

Dean looked down in surprise at the rough voice.  He hadn’t thought Tony was awake.  “I don’t even know who that is, Tony,” he replied.

“McGeek, McGoober, Probi-wan-kenobi, McGoofy, Mc –”

“McGee is not here, Tony, and I do not think it would be kind to bring him in on this.  I do not think his world view would stand up to the knowledge that actual ghosts exist.”

“The geek guy you were telling me about earlier, is that who you’re talking about?”

Tony nodded.  “He –”  His next word broke up into coughing, so Dean hauled him up and started pounding on his back again.  Ziva came forward and sat on the sofa next to Tony’s knees, ready to collect a sample of the goop that came out of his lungs.  Using some kind of swab, she scooped some into a little glass vial, then screwed the lid on tight.

Tony’s coughing lessened enough to allow him to breathe for a moment.  “What is that?” he asked, looking at the little vial of crud.

“Ectoplasm,” Dean said.

“But where did it come from?”

“Your girlfriend,” Ziva said, nodding towards the apparition who was glaring malevolently at them from the edge of the salt circle.  Dean looked around to where they had broken the line, but it was now patted roughly back into place.  He hadn’t done it, so it must have been Ziva, but how had she known what to do?

Tony’s head turned the direction Ziva was looking, and he hunched down.  Dean grabbed the shotgun and fired a round into her.  She dissipated

“ _Ben kelev!_ ” Ziva exclaimed.  “Don’t do that!”

Dean didn’t understand the words, but he got the basic sentiment.  “Did you happen to notice how downright freezing this apartment is?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“She’s doing that.  The longer she stays, the more she’s able to do to make Tony sicker.  Get that crap to Abby and see what she can figure out.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“I’m the guy who’s saving your friend’s life, that’s who.”

Her eyes darted to Tony, who was wheezing pathetically, and her irritation softened.  “Fine.  I will call when I know anything.”

“Thanks.”  He scribbled his number on an old receipt and handed it to her.  She gave him a business card.  Maybe he and Sam should have some of those printed.  Trouble was, what name should be on them?  He tucked the card away in his pocket and nodded.  “I’d advise against calling Gibbs.”

“Why?”  The suspicion was back, sharply focused.

“He’s on a hunt, and that can be tense work.”

“A hunt?”  Her dark brows knit.

“He and Sammy are looking for the bitch’s remains.  This won’t stop until whatever’s left of her is salted and burned.”

“Why did he go and leave you here?”

“Because I know what to do, and he doesn’t.”  Dean snorted.  “It was his suggestion.  I think there was something else about his badge being able to grant him legal access where we could only lie.”

“Ah yes, your frequent charges of impersonating a law enforcement official.”

Dean shrugged.  “Weren’t you getting a sample to Abby?” he asked.

Her lips tightened, but she nodded sharply and left.  He heard the door open and close and then lock behind her.  “Does she have a key to your place?” he asked Tony.  The federal agent shook his head.  “How’d she get in, then?”

“She’s a secret agent,” Tony said confidingly.  “A spy.  An assassin.”

Dean blinked at him.  “Your partner is a spy?” he asked.  “A hot, gorgeous, lethal spy?”

“Where’d you get those bruises on your face?” Tony asked.

“When we introduced ourselves.”

“You got beat up by a girl,” Tony said, a faint grin on his face.

“Like you could do better,” Dean retorted.

“Nope.  She wipes the floor with me regularly.”  Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Tony took in a rattling breath and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Desmarais clan is an invention created by my beta and I over the past several years of discussing Supernatural fanfiction, and our conception of them actually predates the Campbell clan in the show by a season or so. Regardless, the basic idea is that it makes sense for a family of hunters to settle in Louisiana. When we started talking about this story, it just seemed to make sense, given Abby's origins, to make her a non-hunting scion of the Desmarais clan.


	9. Chapter 9

Gibbs started awake when his phone rang. They were a fair distance into Pennsylvania now, he saw with approval. He pulled his phone out and answered. "Yeah, Abbs?"

"Gran finally got back to me," she said instantly.

"Okay."

"Apparently, Sam and Dean have been hunting together for the last year and a half or thereabouts. In hunter circles it's known that their father died sometime in the summer."

"I see," Gibbs said. "Go on."

"I looked back to see if I could find the event that caused Sam to start hunting again after college. It looks like his girlfriend died in a fire in early November of 2005. The weird thing there is that his mother also died in a fire in early November, only in 1983." Gibbs didn't say anything. "They're acknowledged to be following in their father's footsteps, though Gran heard something about a hunter who says they're soft and not to be trusted. Gran says the rumbling is low, though, and coming from a quarter she doesn't particularly trust."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Soft?" Abby asked, and Gibbs grunted an assent. "That they aren't as ruthless as hunters are supposed to be."

"Okay, what about the rest of what I asked you for?"

"There is one officer still alive, one Ronald Wheeler. Born 1929, now living in a nursing home. He left the force in 1961 and moved to Parkerville, New Jersey."

He dug out a pen. "Get me the address." He wrote down what she dictated. "Thanks, Abbs, that's –"

"That's not all, Gibbs. I have a status update on Tony."

"Go ahead."

"He's coughing up ectoplasm. I guess it's in his lungs."

"Ecto what?" Gibbs repeated, and he sensed Sam turning towards him. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's not. You guys have to hurry."

"Got it Abbs. That it?"

"Ziva's in on the secret now," Abby said. "I guess she went to go check on Tony, worried after the way he acted today, and she walked in on Dean and Tony and Iris."

"Could be worse."

"Could be way worse. McGee would so not handle this well."

"No, he wouldn't. Call me if you get anything else."

"Yes sir, bossman."

He snapped the phone shut and tucked it back in its holster. "Who was that?" Sam asked.

"Abby. What is ectoplasm?"

"Ectoplasm? It's a plasma-like substance that super-powerful spirits sometimes leave behind when they manifest themselves. Why?"

"Tony's coughing it up."

"Euew!" Sam exclaimed, and Gibbs raised his eyebrows at him. "That's not good," he said.

"So Abby said," Gibbs replied.

"What else did she say? Whose address did she give you?"

"Ronald Wheeler," Gibbs said. "The only surviving member of the Burlington County Sheriff's squad from 1959."

"You still wanting to catch the guys who did it?" Sam asked.

"Isn't unfinished business a big deal for ghosts?" Gibbs asked.

"Maybe, but she's gone way beyond her unfinished business, and unless you think Tony's done something rotten, she's not very discriminating in who she kills. She may very well have lost track of that original issue." He pulled into the parking lot of something called The Colonial Motel. It was very kitschy, but seventies kitschy, and it looked like that was the last time it had gotten a real update, or any serious maintenance.

"What are we doing here?" Gibbs asked.

"We'll need to change to look right when we go to the county offices."

Gibbs looked down at himself. "This is how I dress," he said mildly.

"Well, I'm twenty-four years old, and in order to pass as any kind of federal agent, I need to dress a little better than that."

Gibbs nodded slowly. "Maybe, though paired with me you're in better shape than paired with your brother."

The younger Winchester looked at him suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That pairing a newbie with a guy of my years won't look quite so weird as pairing two kids."

"We are not kids," Sam snapped. Gibbs waited for the fit of temper to subside. "But I get your point." He pulled up outside the office. "I'll be back in a minute."

Gibbs shrugged and waited. An amazingly short time later, they were in a motel room with Sam changing clothes. "Shorter hair might help convey the impression you want," Gibbs remarked.

"Not my thing," Sam replied curtly, straightening his tie.

Gibbs watched him finish getting ready and nodded when he was done. "You do look like a junior agent trying to come across older."

"Thanks," Sam said sarcastically.

Gibbs straightened his back. "Now, when we go in, you'll be a very junior agent to my senior," he said, and Sam's brows knit. "If you start cracking wise or backtalking me, you'll screw your cover, and I'll have to react like I would to any insubordinate junior agent."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Gibbs shook his head and gave the kid a disgusted look. If he had to ask, there wasn't much point in explaining.

* * *

Sam glowered at the older man, then grabbed his gun and tucked it into his shoulder holster. "You ready?" Gibbs gave a slight shrug but angled his head towards the door. Sam stalked towards it and they went out and got into the car. "Won't they think it's weird that the junior agent is driving?"

"Actually, they'll think it's weird that we're driving a classic car. Generally, agents drive government vehicles when they're working. It's a liability issue."

"And the fact that I'm driving?"

"Means very little. A lot of senior agents like to spend the travel time thinking or going over notes. Just depends."

"What about you? Is that how you are?"

"Nope." The flat answer with no further information offered made Sam grind his teeth. It was like talking to Dad again. Dragging data out of him had always been like pulling teeth. "I'm guessing you don't have any NCIS identities in your repertoire."

"Not a one."

"We're not well known enough to make it worthwhile, and our purview is a little limited."

"Pretty much."

"So, you're an FBI liaison," Gibbs said. "We're working this case together, and you've been assigned to me. What's your name?"

"Agent Bryan," Sam said.

"Sam Bryan?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah, it's easier."

"It is," Gibbs replied, nodding. "Okay, I'll call you Bryan."

"Not Agent Bryan?" Sam asked.

"I'll introduce you as Agent Bryan, thereafter, we're Bryan and Gibbs. No one looking at me is going to think I'm that formal, and I'd have knocked it out of you within hours."

"Right," Sam said, putting the car in gear. This guy was so full of himself, it was a wonder he ever listened to anyone. "And not sir?"

"Nope."

Sam rolled his eyes and drove them to the Burlington County offices. He parked the car and they got out, Gibbs walking with an easy stride towards the front of the building. Somehow, even having slept in the car and not done anything more than wash his hands, he still looked neat and presentable. It was more than a little irritating. Sam followed him into the building, trying for junior. Gibbs got directions to the right department, and they made their way through the building. It was weird to think that they were here legally. Or at least Gibbs was, but no one so far had needed to see his ID. He was with a genuine federal agent, he looked the part, and that was enough to grant him entry.

Gibbs walked straight up to a wall with glass windows like ticket booths. A woman walked up to the counter beyond the window. "I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," he said, flashing his badge holder at her in a peculiar two-part motion. "I need to see the evidence on a case from 1959. Is this where I'd find it?"

"If it's still open," she replied. "Got a case number?"

"394012," Gibbs said without consulting the file in Sam's hands.

The woman nodded, tapping on a keyboard and gazing at the screen. "The Gottlieb case, huh?" she said. "I'll go check."

Sam resisted the urge to express his astonishment at the ease of the process. Gibbs exuded authority, though, and neither Sam nor Dean did. Dad had. Maybe that's why Dean had never felt the need for suits before he and Sam had started working together. With Dad beside him, no one was going to question his credentials. Gibbs had the same effect.

"This is odd," the woman said, coming back with a cardboard box that had clearly not been dusted in years.

"What's odd?" Gibbs asked.

"According to the logs, the last time this box was accessed was in 1960, and nothing was removed at that time."

"So?" She opened the box and they could both see that it was empty. Sam saw the muscles on the back of Gibbs' neck tense up. "Who accessed it in 1960?" he asked.

"Deputy Ronald Wheeler," she replied, reading off the computerized log.

"Thanks," Gibbs said. "Is there an inventory of what should be there?"

She nodded. "Dress, blue, bloodstained. Pearl necklace. Hair combs. Undergarments, bloodstained. Black shoes. Eyeglasses."

"Can I have a copy of that inventory?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure." She printed it out and Gibbs handed it to Sam to tuck into his folder.

Without another word, Gibbs turned and walked out of the room. The woman watched him go with raised eyebrows and Sam stepped forward. "Thank you," he said.

She smiled at him, but nodded towards the door Gibbs had left by. "You'd better hurry. That man doesn't strike me as the type to wait."

Sam grimaced and went after Gibbs. He caught up to him just outside the building courtesy of a longer stride since he refused to run. "So, New Jersey now?"

"Yup," Gibbs said. "You need sleep?"

"Sleep is for wimps," Sam replied.

"I could drive."

"I'd have to be dead, and even then Dean wouldn't let you drive."

"Okay."

Did the man never find something annoying? Did he never react? Sam resisted the urge to say something really outrageous just to get the older man to respond. That was Dean's gig. He just got on the road and headed for New Jersey. This was going to be a long drive.

* * *

Dean called Sam around noon, but Gibbs answered. They exchanged news, not that either of them had much. Ziva had shown up about twenty minutes after he'd hung up. She'd been carrying two grocery bags that were practically overflowing, and something that smelled like chicken had wafted from her direction. He was pretty sure he'd offered to marry her at least once because she'd brought delicious hot deli sandwiches for them, and soup for Tony. They'd managed to wake him up enough to spoon the chicken soup into him, and Tony had seemed appreciative before he'd lapsed back into sleep.

Once everyone had been fed and all the trash had been disposed of, Ziva went and pulled a large box of rock salt out of one of the grocery bags. "Tell me, is it required that you fire the salt into the ghost with a high speed projectile?" she asked.

"Not really, it's just more efficient." He shrugged. "Not that it matters right now. Ghosts don't come out until after dark." He nodded towards the windows where bright sunlight was streaming in yet somehow not really penetrating the cold of the apartment.

"Even so, sooner or later, Tony's neighbors are going to decide this isn't just a movie and come to investigate."

Dean had been suspecting the same thing for some time, but he didn't really have a solution. The loose rock salt he had with him was just enough to keep the salt circle whole.

"Also, does the circle need actually to be circular?"

"No," Dean said. "I mean, this is more of an oval around the sofa than anything."

"Very well." She opened the top of her salt canister and began laying a line of salt that would take in considerably more of the floor space of the apartment.

"What are you doing?"

"The closer she is, the more dangerous she is to Tony?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah."

"So, I will draw a circle that is larger and will keep her farther away."

"You've got enough salt for that?"

"I bought thirteen packages this size," she said, gesturing with the rock salt.

"Dude, you rock," he said.

"Move the coffee table."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"We should move the sofa into the center of the protected area. That will entail moving the coffee table."

"Sure," Dean said, not quite certain how he'd gotten to be the subordinate in this situation. He picked up the coffee table and put it in the dining room. Then he went back and found one of her other containers of salt and began the line in the opposite direction. Since she looked up, clearly saw him but didn't comment, he assumed she approved of his initiative. They finished that circle, moved the sofa without disturbing Tony, and then Ziva disappeared into the kitchen. Dean moved the coffee table back in front of the sofa so it would be handy, grabbed a chair cushion and put it on the floor next to the sofa to sit down on. He had time for a nap right now since there wasn't likely to be any activity for six hours or more.

A knock on the door brought him out of sleep straight to his feet. Ziva hastened out of the kitchen, a wine glass in one hand, her other working at the waistband of her jeans.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, still a little logy from sleep.

"Hold this," she said softly, thrusting the wineglass at him. It had obvious lipstick marks on it, and it was only about a third full. She dropped her jeans, briefly revealing lacey panties before her shirt dropped down to cover them. Unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse, she messed up her hair, took the wineglass and went to the door. Dean hovered close enough to hear what she was saying.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a bit of a tipsy giggle. Dean was more than a little surprised by her acting flair.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry, I didn't . . ." The voice was male and distinctly unsettled. "Are you aware of the loud noises that have been coming from this apartment all night?"

Another giggle. "Some of them," she said coyly. "But we have been watching movies. I think the volume was too loud. I promise, it will stop."

"Thank you." The man sounded acutely uncomfortable, and Ziva shut the door. Returning to the living room, she picked up her pants and put them back on.

"That was interesting."

"It will do Tony's reputation no harm, and misdirection was necessary. If you had answered the door, suspicion might have been aroused."

"Instead you thought you'd arouse different feelings."

"Exactly," she said with a smile. "Embarrassment is always a good distraction from suspicion."

"That wasn't the feeling I had in mind," Dean said. "Take it from a guy. Frustrated desire is distracting. Period."

"Men are easily distracted," she agreed.

"What were you doing in the kitchen?" he asked. "Preparing to be distracting?"

"Among other things." She buttoned her blouse up again and went back into the kitchen. Dean shook his head and told a certain part of him to get a grip. Ziva emerged a few moments later with a cup of some steaming beverage, a roll of paper towels and a strange contraption that looked a little like a hot plate in miniature.

She put them down on the coffee table, and plugged in the contraption. "This will keep his tea hot till he is ready to drink it," she said, setting the mug down on it.

"Clever." He picked up the paper towels and ripped some off.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, grabbing them back from him.

"I figured I'd wipe up some of the ectoplasm from his blankets," he said.

"That is not what I brought them out here for, though it is a good thought."

"What did you bring them out for?"

"Salt bombs." Dean's brows went up and he watched her take a paper towel, lay it flat on the table, then place salt in the center. Then she twisted it up loosely, put it aside and created another one. "This will give me distance as well as spread," she said.

"Can I marry you? Seriously? Or if you like tall, moody types better, there's always my brother."

"I do not prefer tall, moody types," Ziva said darkly.

"Cool," Dean said. "I've already got someone in mind for him anyway."

"Have you?" Ziva asked, sounding amused.

"Really hot chick, on your level, whose reaction to hunting was to admit that she was terrified, but that she had to do something about it. She's even got specialist knowledge, which is totally a plus."

"Indeed. She is hot on my level?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't get offended, sweetheart, you're drop dead gorgeous."

"No," Ziva said. "I was simply thinking that I might want to meet her."

Dean blinked at her, his libido stirring. "You don't mean that the way I think you mean that, do you?" She winked at him coyly and returned to her preparation of salt bombs. Dean started speaking firmly to his anatomy again.

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" she suggested. "If we are lucky, we will have no need of these preparations."

Dean snorted. "Luck isn't a big part of my planning," he said. "I'll go stretch out on the bed. Give a shout if you need me."

She gave him a look from under her eyelashes that was calculated to be devastating to the male libido. "Oh, I will," she said in a throaty voice. He glowered at her and left.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam paced on the side of the road. "I really think we should call Dean," he said.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I don't think so. He's watching my man, and this isn't a big deal."

"It's the car," Sam said, like that meant the entire world rested on the outcome of Gibbs' little fix. Dean kept a good set of tools in the backseat and Gibbs knew a little bit about engines. The world was not coming to an end. "He's going to flip out."

Gibbs had located the problem, but it might prove difficult to solve unless they had the right kind of materials. He stood up, wiping his hands on a clean rag that, from the stains, had clearly done this duty before. He glanced over at his agitated companion and nodded. "Give me your belt," he ordered.

"What?" Sam exclaimed. "Why?"

"She slipped a belt," Gibbs replied. "Unless your brother has a bunch of spare parts stowed somewhere, we'll need something to take its place."

"Why not your belt?" Sam demanded.

"Because yours is the right size," Gibbs said, shrugging. He held his hand out. "This will get us to the next service station where it can be replaced properly." Muttering profanely, Sam removed his belt and handed it over. Gibbs leaned back into the car and affixed it in place. "You ready?"

"Sure, as long as you don't mind someone wearing saggy pants."

Gibbs rolled his eyes, lowered the hood till it was about four inches from closed and then dropped it so that it latched. He wiped the rest of the grease off his hands then went back behind the wheel. He turned her over, and she started. He got out and said, "Come on, kid, let's go."

"I don't know how to drive a car that's using a leather belt in place of a rubber one," Sam protested.

"Then I'll drive her." Grimacing anxiously, Sam climbed in, and Gibbs drove at a sedate pace to the next town where they got the needed part and Sam ducked into a drug store to get a replacement for his ruined belt. Gibbs couldn't fault him for wanting to be tidy, but the kid was a little fussy.

The whole process had eaten up a couple of hours, and it was now going to be after dark when they reached former Deputy Wheeler's place of residence. Even Gibbs' badge might be hard-pressed to get them admitted if it was too late. He'd try, though. He was not waiting a moment longer than he had to.

It was just past eight when they pulled up in the parking lot of the Shady Glen Rest Home. Why rest homes seemed to feel the need to be shady or happy or golden, he didn't know. At the front desk, he spoke to a matronly woman who at first seemed disinclined to agree to allow them entrance. The badge just made her hackles go up. Then the Winchester kid got into the act, and Gibbs suddenly understood why these boys were so successful. He explained that it would be really helpful to their case to talk to Mr. Wheeler, and that they would be careful not to distress or tire him unduly, and that he was sure that Mr. Wheeler would want to be involved since he was a former peace officer. The innocence and boyish charm he exuded would have put DiNozzo to shame. In the end, he cajoled her to take them to Wheeler's room. Fortunately, his roommate was out.

"Mr. Wheeler, these nice men from the FBI are here to see you." Gibbs didn't correct her mistake.

Wheeler looked up. "Fine, fine, what do you boys what?"

The matronly woman left them alone. Gibbs stepped forward. "I have a few questions about the Iris Gottlieb case."

Wheeler shrugged. "It's over and done with, years back," he said.

"It's still marked open."

"Well, that's a bit of a difficulty," Wheeler replied. "Kind of hard to mark it closed when the bastards who did it never got officially caught."

"But it is closed?" Sam asked, glancing at Gibbs.

"Well, all the pricks who did it are dead," Wheeler said. "I made sure of that."

"You . . . what?" Sam said, looking startled.

"I made sure they died," Wheeler stated flatly. "And then I quit the sheriff's department and moved the hell away."

"You knew who did it?" Gibbs asked.

"Everyone knew who'd done it, but nobody was willing to say squat, and there wasn't any proof like there would have been now. They'd have got semen samples and everything nowadays. Back then, you pretty much had to catch a rapist in the act." Gibbs nodded. "So, what's your interest?"

"The evidence, it's gone missing," Gibbs said. "We need to find it."

"You mean Iris's dress and stuff?" Wheeler asked. "I buried it years back. Wasn't having my niece's dress lying around in an evidence box to be pawed over by idiots for years."

"Where did you bury it?"

Wheeler studied him. "Why should I tell you?" he asked.

Gibbs gazed at him solemnly, well aware that he lacked any credible reason to request the information that would convince a man who believed he'd already caught and punished the culprits who were responsible for the death of his niece.

"You know," Sam said, "it's odd, but I personally talked to quite a few people in town and nobody mentioned a thing about everyone knowing who did it." Gibbs turned towards him, trying to tell him with his eyes to shut up. "I mean, a couple of the women I spoke to were clearly gossips of long standing, and if everyone involved was long dead, they wouldn't have kept it to themselves." Gibbs glanced towards Wheeler to judge his reaction, to see how pissed he might be getting and was surprised by the thoughtful, vaguely alarmed look on his face. "How did you really find out who did it, Mr. Wheeler?"

Wheeler's eyes and Sam's remained locked for a long moment, and Gibbs wondered what the hell was going on. "You've seen her," the old man said finally, and Gibbs swallowed his surprise.

"I have," Sam said. "Why didn't she kill you?"

"She started to," Wheeler said. "I don't . . . you believe me?" He turned from Sam to Gibbs with wide eyes. Gibbs nodded very slightly. "Then she recognized me and . . ." He shook his head, and Gibbs could see his hands trembling. There went the promise not to disturb him. "She told me who they were, and I promised her they would die. It took nearly two years, but I did it, and then I left town."

"Did you ever go back and tell her the job was done?" Gibbs asked in as mild a tone as he could manage.

Wheeler shook his head. "It was terrifying, and I . . . I tried, but I just couldn't."

"Well, she never stopped killing," Gibbs said. "And she's fixated on one of my men right now." Wheeler's jaw dropped, and it was Sam's turn to glower him to silence.

"We need to know where you buried her things so we can help her rest," Sam said. "You want her to be able to rest, right?"

Wheeler swallowed, giving Gibbs an apprehensive look. "I never thought she'd keep on. She was such a sweet girl."

"Spirits change when they can't rest," Sam said sympathetically. "But if we can give her peace, she'll move on."

"It's all buried in a dress box under the rosebushes in the backyard of my house."

"Here?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah. I didn't want to leave her there where no one seemed to care. I wanted to take good care of her."

"It's okay, I'm sure she knew that," Sam said soothingly. "Do you still own the house?"

"No, I sold it before I came here," Wheeler said. "You would not believe what I got for it."

"I might," Gibbs said, contemplating what his house had been valued at not too long ago. "What's the address?"

Armed with that information, they went back out into the twilight. It was barely past nine and the sun had only just set beyond the horizon. "Now we just have to hope that the rosebushes are still there," Gibbs said.

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"He sold three years ago. It could be anything from smooth grass to a vegetable garden to a swimming pool by now."

Sam blinked. "Is that why you asked him what part of the yard the roses were in?"

Gibbs nodded. "Good work in there," he said after a minute. He actually expected to get his head bitten off, but the kid surprised him.

"Thanks," Sam said. "You weren't so bad yourself."

In a relatively comfortable mood, they returned to the car and got on the road, headed for what they both hoped would be their last stop.

* * *

Dean woke up and blinked confusedly. Usually when he went to sleep without a pillow, it was on a less than comfortable surface. On this occasion, it was an entirely comfortable surface, but he had no idea where he was. Soft, pleasant smelling mattress, completely stripped bare, no blankets, just slightly beyond comfortably cool. Cool.

He sat up sharply. Tony DiNozzo. Iris Gottlieb. Ziva David. He got out of bed and straightened his clothes before heading back out into the living room. Ziva was leaning over the sofa, stroking Tony's damp hair back from his forehead. She had an oddly mixed manner about her, clearly unaware that she was being observed. It was part maternal, part exasperated.

"Hey, anything new?"

She jerked upright, as if embarrassed to be caught in so intimate a position, even though it was entire innocent. "How long have you been there?" she asked.

"I don't know, a second, maybe two. I just woke up."

"Tony is doing better."

"Probably because she hasn't been able to affect him for . . ." He looked at the clock. "Fifteen or so hours. But daylight is fading, so we'd better get ready."

"Salt bombs," she said, gesturing to two separate piles of like twelve each. "Hot tea in a carafe so we will not have to leave him to fetch more, or at least not as often."

"Let's play charades," said a hoarse voice from the sofa.

"Are you sure you can stay awake that long?" Dean asked.

"I do not like charades," Ziva said. "You always choose things that I know nothing about."

"You know more than you used to," Tony said.

"I still do not want to play charades," Ziva replied.

"It'd be fun," Tony said.

Dean tilted his head. "How exactly are you going to act stuff out?" he asked. "It's not like we're going to let you up, or anything."

Tony's eyes narrowed as he looked at Dean, then he turned to Ziva. "Did you beat up on him?"

"I arrived at your apartment to find the door damaged, and entered only to be attacked by him."

"You attacked her?" Tony asked, turning his accusing glare on Dean.

"All I did was take her gun away."

"You let him take your gun away?"

"I got it back," she replied defensively.

"Glad to hear it," Tony said, giving her a dubious look. "I'd hate to think that our Mossad-trained liaison officer could be permanently disarmed by a hick drifter." He aimed a wink at Dean, or Dean would have protested the slur. Not that he wasn't a hick drifter, but there was nothing wrong with that.

"It wasn't even challenging," she said.

"I bet I could beat you both on accuracy," Dean said.

"That is no real proof of anything," Ziva exclaimed, laughing. "He once shot his own hat." Dean's eyebrows went up, and he stared at Tony.

"Hey!" Tony said. "That's not fair. I wasn't wearing it at the time."

"Why were you shooting at your hat?" Dean asked.

"Long story. Suffice it to say, Ziva wasn't even there, so we don't know how she would have measured up."

"I beg to differ," Ziva said. "We know exactly how I would have measured up . . . to you, at any rate."

"Hey," Tony exclaimed. "My hat was still useful, as you well know, but the PDA was killed."

"But why were you guys shooting at your stuff?"

"Gibbs – training exercise – 'nuff said."

"I didn't know anything about Gibbs and training exercises."

"As I understand it, they were training to shoot a target while the target held a hostage as a shield," Ziva said calmly. She shrugged. "They both missed."

"This McGeek guy?" Dean asked.

"No," Tony said. "That was even before McGee." He scrunched his eyes shut. "I'm hungry. Is there any more of that soup?"

"I'll go heat it up for you," Ziva said, and she got up and left the room hurriedly.

Their moods had shifted dramatically for reasons Dean couldn't identify. "Tony, is something wrong?"

Tony grimaced. "The PDA-killer was Kate . . . she was my partner before Ziva," he said. "She's dead."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." He glanced towards the kitchen uneasily. "Was it on the job?" he asked hesitantly, not sure he should pry.

Tony nodded. "She was about a foot away from me," he said with an odd little twist of his head. Dean got an irresistible impression of blowback.

"Was Ziva there?"

"No, her connection is a little more remote," Tony said, and Dean got a feeling that he was being somewhat evasive.

"The man who killed her was my half-brother," Ziva announced, returning with a steaming bowl of soup. "But that story sounds like a soap opera if told truthfully, so we will leave it at that."

"My life story reads like a horror novel," Dean said, shrugging. "At least soap operas are mainstream."

"He watches _Dr. Sexy_ ," Tony said confidingly.

Ziva smiled. "That man is sexy, and it is fun to watch, despite its complete disregard for reality."

Dean nodded. "Cowboy boots," he said knowingly.

"You are right. They make his image."

Tony clapped his hands over his face. "My God. Trapped with two fans of that inane show!"

"It is no more inane that those movies you are forever quoting," Ziva retorted.

The temperature abruptly dropped again, and they all fell silent. Tony's breathing developed a hitch, and his eyes were fixed on something over Dean's shoulder. He turned, grabbing up one of Ziva's salt bombs by the twisted top and threw it at the ghost. It broke apart as it passed through her and she vanished, but the damage was done. Tony started coughing again. Dean rocked Tony upright and started pounding on his back. He met Ziva's worried eyes and wished he had any idea where Gibbs and Sam were in their hunt.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam's phone rang while they sat in the car, two streets away from Wheeler's old house, waiting for it to be late enough that they'd have a reasonable chance of digging up the roses without being seen. Sam pulled the phone out of his pocket and took a quick glance at the caller ID. "What's Bobby doing calling?" he muttered, returning his attention to the road as he thumbed the button to answer. "Hello?"

Bobby wasted no time on amenities. "Sam, you heard from your brother lately?"

"Trying to stay out of his hair while he protects a civilian from one nasty spirit," Sam said. "Why?"

"I just called him and he's not picking up his phone," Bobby said. "He was asking about the effects ectoplasm has if it ends up inside a person. Turns out, lots of people spew it up during séances and stuff, but not many of them are harmed by it. Not sure if it's ever actually inside them, though. Have you seen it with this civilian?"

"No, Bobby, I haven't. It didn't start till Gibbs and I were long gone."

"Who is it?" Gibbs asked, his brows knit.

Sam gave him a sidelong glance. "Friend of ours, Dean called him to ask about the ectoplasm." He returned to Bobby. "If the ghost is being active, you know that could screw with Dean's phone. It destroyed Tony's phone the first time we ran into it, major frost damage."

"And I don't know who you've been dealing with besides Jackson Gibbs' son, but I've been getting some odd calls about you boys. From Louisiana, sounds like the Desmarais clan is interested, so tread lightly, whatever it is you're doing. You don't want them pissed at you."

"I don't know how we would have come to their attention, Bobby, we're in Pennsylvania and DC."

"Well, just be careful, boy," Bobby said. "If you hear from Dean, find out if he can tell whether the ectoplasm is only emerging or if it's actually in the fellow's lungs."

"Sure, Bobby," Sam said, and he hung up. Just as he was about to explain all of that to Gibbs, the other man's phone rang.

Gibbs answered it and was silent for a long moment. "Thanks Abbs," he said finally before snapping the phone shut. "Abby says that ectoplasm is often associated with seizures and convulsions, but that neither Dean nor Ziva mentioned those symptoms to her."

Sam blinked. "Who is Ziva?"

"Another member of our team," Gibbs said, and Sam's eyes widened. "She dropped by to check on Tony."

"Dean wouldn't have let another civilian in," Sam protested. "He'd have pretended no one was home, or something."

"Ziva undoubtedly let herself in," Gibbs replied mildly. They were silent for a moment, and Sam wondered how Dean had handled that. "Abby said she tried to call Dean, and then Ziva, but that their cell phones appear to be off."

"I suspect Iris has something to do with that," Sam said, grimacing.

"I heard you telling your friend. Would it affect a landline the same way?"

"No idea," Sam said. "Depends on how high tech the phone is, I'd imagine."

Gibbs picked up his phone again and dialed. He sat for several moments, just listening, then flipped it shut. "DiNozzo does like tech toys," he said, then fell silent without further explanation. Not that Sam needed one.

* * *

Iris was clearly getting frustrated, Dean thought. Ziva was busily making up more salt bombs because they were using them faster than Dean had expected based on the ghost's previous performance. The cold in the apartment was making both Ziva and Dean shiver, and they'd raided Tony's stored winter clothes for jackets.

Tony gazed blearily up at them. "Before long, you're going to have to dig out my skis," he said, his breath still rattling in his lungs. He started to cough, and Ziva began to pound on his back.

"Do not speak, Tony," she said remonstratively. "It is not good for you." When he'd stopped coughing, she poured him another mugful of tea. "Drink."

"If I have any more, I'm going to float away," Tony replied, his eye glinting with irritation. "Don't hover, Ziva."

She sat back and returned to making salt bombs. "I do not hover."

"Ha!" The percussive sound proved to be a poor choice. Tony started coughing again.

"I've got him," Dean said. "Keep making bombs." He stepped across Ziva's little workspace and began thumping Tony's back. "Stop talking," he advised him.

"You might as well ask Niagara Falls to stop flowing."

"An earthquake once made the Mississippi River flow backwards," Dean said.

"What is the relevance?"

Dean shrugged. "None, it just came to mind." He lowered Tony to the pillows and gave him the cup of tea Ziva had attempted to get him to drink earlier. "You won't drown, and Ziva will just turn around if you need to go again." They'd already done that twice now. Tony gave him a pathetic look, but he took the tea. After taking a couple of sips, he stuck his tongue out at Ziva.

"What was that for?" she asked. Tony didn't reply, he just took another swallow of tea. "What?" Ziva repeated.

"I think he's proving that he can 'not speak,'" Dean said, blinking at Tony. The other man looked drained and very weary. Dean didn't think he was actually getting any worse, but his nose had just started to run, only it wasn't mucous. Ectoplasm dribbled down his upper lip. Dean grabbed the roll of paper towels and pulled off a handful. "Here, you don't want that in your mouth," he said, wiping the nasty substance off Tony's face. He showed the dirty paper towel to Tony before crumpling it up and stuffing it into his pocket. He handed Tony the remaining handful of paper towels so he could take care of the problem himself and whirled because he felt the cold deepening behind him.

* * *

Gibbs abruptly got out of the car. Apparently that was supposed to be a cue, because a few seconds after he'd shut the door, he tapped on the glass impatiently. Sam got out and glared at him over the top of the car. "What?"

"It's time."

Sam bit his tongue to avoid growling at the older man. If it were possible, he was even more autocratic than Dad. He walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk, pulling out lighter fluid, a flask of salt and two shovels. Gibbs took the shovels and led off down the alley that ran behind the houses. Dogs barked at them from the yards they passed, but no one seemed to notice much. It wasn't that kind of neighborhood. Sam hoped all the yards were sufficiently fenced. He did not want to have to deal with a loose dog. Partway down the alley, a light came on. They kept moving. Stopping would be way more suspicious than ignoring the light. Gibbs never glanced back, like he had no doubts at all that Sam would stay with him.

The night wasn't precisely quiet. Besides the dogs, music could be heard from some houses, and one dwelling was evidently inhabited by someone with an impressive snore. Sam was about to alert Gibbs to the fact that they'd reached the house they were heading to when Gibbs turned and walked over to the fence. It was an eight-foot privacy fence, much the worse for years of wear. A latch string was plainly visible, and Gibbs pulled it gently, exactly as if he belonged there. The gate popped open, and they both slipped inside.

The grass was up past his ankles, and the house was completely dark, which made Sam wonder if anyone lived there. Sam heard a click, and Gibbs gestured with his flashlight. "Rosebushes."

Sam blinked at them. "I'm guessing . . . those have . . . grown." There had clearly once been a row of bushes, but they seemed to have grown together and become a solid mass.

"Roses'll do that sometimes," Gibbs observed mildly. The man didn't seem to speak above a calm voice, but Sam sensed tension under the veneer. Gibbs turned towards him and held out one of the shovels. "Let's go."

* * *

Tony huddled deeper into the couch. His chest ached deeply, and he kept having to wipe that nasty black stuff off his face. The cold sank into the marrow of his bones, and his shivering had increased to the point where he almost felt like he was undulating. Ziva and Dean were doing their best, but they weren't going to save him. The ghost couldn't get through the circles of salt for whatever reason, but the malevolent air had no trouble penetrating into his lungs and irritating them. The stuff inside his lungs gurgled grotesquely and forced him to breathe shallowly.

"What is she up to?" Ziva asked, and Tony flicked his eyes towards where she knelt on the floor by the foot of the sofa, still wrapping piles of rock salt in pieces of paper towel despite the fact that there was a small mountain of previously made salt bombs beside her.

"Her site is a ways away from here," Dean replied slowly. "It's got to take some energy for her to manifest."

"She has rested all day," Ziva pointed out. "She should not be lacking in energy."

Dean didn't immediately reply, and Tony flicked his eyes towards the hunter. He seemed a little uncertain. Tony didn't have anything to say, and it was taking effort to look at either of them, so he relaxed. From where they'd moved his sofa to – a spot that really didn't work with the feng shui of the space – he could see the entrance hall, and his coat rack. The jackets hanging on it had started swaying. Absent any source of wind, this seemed decidedly odd. He began gathering energy to mention it to his babysitters, but before he could manage to do so, the jackets flew off and flung themselves around the room, the coat rack hitting the floor with a sharp clack. One of them hit Dean in the head.

Dean snatched it off. "What the –"

At that moment, it was like a blizzard let loose in the apartment. Winds blew, carrying ice and knocking everything off the walls. DVDs began to fly around the room together with broken glass and picture frames.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, ducking. "She was saving it up for this!"

"What do we do?" Ziva asked.

The thickest part of the storm circled above Tony, gradually lowering. He could feel his breath freezing in his lungs; he began to gasp and wheeze. His chest heaved.

"I don't know," Dean said. "This is weird."

Tony's vision began to go black around the edges, and he could feel himself choking.

"Maybe if we throw the salt into the wind, it will reach her and stop it."

"Maybe," Dean said doubtfully. "What do you . . . Tony? Tony?"

"Tony!" Ziva sounded panicked.

It was beginning to feel as it had when he'd had the plague, breathing took so much effort that he could barely notice the people around him. Then he saw Iris leaning down over the back of the sofa. Her hand came towards him and he knew he was dead.


	12. Chapter 12

Gibbs couldn't fault the kid's work ethic as they chopped their way through the roots of the rosebushes. Between the toughness of the root fibers and the thorns of the bushes, it had proven somewhat difficult, and Gibbs just hoped that they could get through before things got too bad back at Tony's place. He didn't really know what to expect when they reached the rotted remains of a box, barely held together by the strings Wheeler had used to tie it closed.

He reached down to drag it out of the hole, but Sam just sliced through the strings and flipped what was left of the box lid off. After shaking salt over the tattered remnants of Iris Gottlieb's life, he sprayed lighter fluid over the top of it all. Gibbs pulled his lighter out and threw it down onto the stuff. It caught fire and burned brightly.

"That's it?" Gibbs asked.

"That's it," Sam replied, and then after that, they watched the flames together without speaking.

* * *

Dean knew he was going to be too late. He grabbed one of the salt bombs, preparing to lob it through her. Somewhere behind him, Ziva let out a curse in a language Dean couldn't even guess at. He might not know the words, but the sentiment was clear enough. She was no more likely to stop Iris in time than Dean was.

Iris leaned over the sofa and reached out for Tony's chest, a mad glee in her eyes that was deeply alarming. Dean had no idea where Sam was in the quest to destroy the bitch's remains. They hadn't heard in hours, and he hadn't even considered calling. Joggling someone's elbow while they were hunting was a bad idea.

Staring up at his attacker, Tony spasmed, as if he was trying to move against the paralysis the ghost projected.

Just as the faintly glowing, somewhat translucent fingers touched Tony's chest, Iris's eyes widened. She stood up straight and screamed while brilliant flames started at her feet, then rushed upward to devour her. The blizzard that had blown up in the living room stopped abruptly, everything falling to the floor. Dean threw himself over the top of Tony to keep anything from landing on the stricken man.

Falling objects pelted his back and head, and he felt something slice through the skin of his neck. Tony began to cough violently, and Dean drew back, pulling the man up and helping him by thumping him on the back. Ectoplasm came out of his mouth and dissolved on contact with clear air. He just kept coughing, and Dean knew it had to hurt. "Get it up," he said. "Get it all out."

"Is she gone?" Ziva asked from behind him, her voice urgent. "Will she be back?"

"She's gone," Dean said. "I guess Gibbs and Sam were just in time."

"They could have been earlier," Tony said hoarsely. "That would have been fine with me."

Dean grinned at him sympathetically. Ziva seemed to agree that Tony's crack was a good sign. She squeezed his shoulder and went into the kitchen. Dean kept thumping Tony on the back. He didn't think it would be great for much of the ectoplasm to dissolve inside the guy's lungs.

"My phone has no power," Ziva announced suddenly.

"Probably none of them do," Dean replied. "Ghosts can do that."

"I wondered why we had not heard from Gibbs." She was silent for a moment. "I will borrow Tony's charger," she added, disappearing into the bedroom.

"You guys have the same phone?" Dean asked.

"Government issue," Tony managed to get out between coughs. The paroxysms had begun to ease. Tony's brows knit. "Hey, you're bleeding."

"No big deal," Dean said, reaching up briefly to the stinging spot on his neck. "Not sure what got me," he added, glancing around at the scattering of small objects.

Tony followed his gaze and then took in the total chaos of his living room. "Oh, shit. Now Janice really will kill me."

* * *

Gibbs' phone rang just as they reached the car, and he pulled it out. Sam went around to the driver's side and Gibbs settled into the passenger seat as he answered the call. "Gibbs."

Sam wondered who was calling. After a moment of silence, Gibbs said, "Yup. It's done. What happened there? How's DiNozzo?" Gibbs listened for a moment, and Sam reflected that it must be this Ziva person. He wouldn't refer to Tony in the third person when talking to the man himself, and Dean wouldn't have called Gibbs. "We'll be back as soon as we can." He paused briefly. "Oh, and Ziva, call Dr. Pitt. I want DiNozzo checked out thoroughly as soon as possible." He nodded sharply and cut off the phone before he could have gotten much of a response.

"You make Tony's doctor appointments for him?" Sam asked, giving Gibbs a quick glance.

"Only when I know he won't make them himself."

"He's an adult."

Gibbs was silent briefly, then he cleared his throat. "You don't know us," he said mildly.

"No, I don't, but ever since we met Tony, he's talked about you like you were some kind of ogre. 'Gibbs'll kill me.' 'Gibbs'll be pissed.' And you talk about him like he's some kid who doesn't know how to take care of himself."

Gibbs gave him a dubious look. "Sometimes you gotta look beneath the surface, kid," he said, his tone suggesting that Sam was missing the forest for the trees. "Especially if you're going to investigate things."

Sam bit down on his immediate angry reaction and didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. "So, there's no one to catch, but I'm surprised you don't want to have Wheeler arrested."

"What for?"

"Murder," Sam said.

"No proof," Gibbs replied.

"You might be able to find some."

Gibbs shrugged. "It's not my jurisdiction," he said.

Sam wondered if that was the whole story, but he didn't figure he was getting anything else out of the man. "So, Tony's okay?"

"He'll live," Gibbs said.

"She mention how Dean is?"

"All she said was that Dean is cute." Gibbs shrugged again.

Sam rolled his eyes. "That's Dean." He started the engine and pulled away. Maybe he'd have Gibbs alternate driving with him so they'd get back quicker. Kind of stupid to let him stick a leather belt in the engine and then refuse to let him drive. Dean could kill him if he wanted to.

Gibbs hadn't made a bad partner on the hunt, but Sam didn't have to like him.


End file.
